Terminator: Rally Point
by HeavyKevy88
Summary: This story takes place two years after the events of Terminator Salvation. It takes a broader look at the war on Skynet. It takes place in my hometown of San Antonio, TX. The story will jump from 2020 to 2003 post J-Day. Thanks and enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

**Terminator: Rally Point**

**Chapter 1**

**August 2020**

**San Antonio, Texas.**

The city had become a wasteland. The earth had begun to reclaim its territory. Streets were littered with rubble, abandoned and burned out vehicles, while grass and weeds forced their way through the broken asphalt and concrete. The hollowed out shells of former high rises stood in defiance of the cataclysm that occurred seventeen years ago.

Little to nothing remained of the city's architectural icons. Of the Tower of the Americas only half of its structure remained aloft, the rest sprawled out on the street before it in a mangled heap of steel and glass. The Alamo, San Antonio's most important cultural attraction, was reduced to dust. Hotels, city government offices, the Alamodome were torn asunder by the nuclear onslaught wrought by Skynet in July of 2003.

The attack had come quickly and without warning. San Antonio was a target of strategic importance to the newly self-aware computer system, as was any city with military bases. The tactical nuclear warhead detonated over Lackland Air Force Base. The installation, along with its air power and personnel, were instantly incinerated. The shockwave ripped through the city, blanketing the highways, neighborhoods, and downtown epicenter in flame. For its inhabitants, the world had come to an abrupt and fiery end.

For Shawn Madison, the nightmare had just begun.

He was six years old when Judgment Day befell the world. The maelstrom of that day was a distant and ever-fading memory. He knew he was well out of the city when the bombs fell. It was by pure happenstance that he was with his father in the far hill country when the attack was launched.

It was a modest house at best. Shawn would stay there every other week with his father. Summers spent fishing in the creek, staying up late, helping his father clear neighbors land. Shawn loved it there. It lacked the endless calamity of the city. It was peaceful; a place where, even at the young age of six, he could escape the turmoil of his parent's separation.

He could still remember sitting on his father's porch and watching the mushroom cloud rise to the south, a gust of wind and the faint sound of what had to have been a deafening boom. He remembers the panic of his father, frantically trying to call his mother who was in the city, only to find that the cell networks were down. No television worked, no phones were operable, and the neighbors were just as befuddled as his father was. Shawn remembers fear and uncertainty.

Since then all Shawn Madison has known was struggle and uncertainty. Shawn grew up amongst the survivors. It began by neighbors banding together to protect their property and each other. As the days and weeks passed, fellow survivors would travel their way in small groups, each one recounting their tales of surviving the nuclear holocaust. Despite numerous accounts of the survivors, no one yet knew why the city was destroyed.

As the days dragged on, Shawn's father's appearance changed. A towering, well-built man, the devastation of civilization drew him down. He paced the rooms and hallways of his home with the weight of the destruction bearing down on him. The uncertainty of the days ahead changed his once jovial demeanor to one of hopeless tedium. No longer did he speak to his neighbors and refugees with words of encouragement and solace. Every response to any inquiry was met with a short, stern response. His confusion gave way to frantic frustration.

Shawn spent these early days weaving in and out of the groups on survivors huddled together across his once peaceful home. Nothing they said made any sense to him. He desperately wanted to understand why his father had changed so suddenly. Shawn would sit on the porch and look to the south and observe the columns of smoke rise from the city he called home. Day after day he would ask his father why his mother hadn't come to get him and his father would simply walk away.

Shawn would spend hours watching his father meet with his neighbors and the many despondent survivors. They spoke tirelessly of what they thought happened. "It had to have been the Chinese." "No, it was terrorists; they have been saying they would get nuclear weapons for years." "How did they shut off the phones and internet?" "Everything fell apart, I had no internet or TV and then BANG!" "How the hell did this happen?" "Where is the military?"

Weeks after the attack, time spent pacing and hearing the desperate stories of the survivors occupying his home grew too heavy. Shawn's father had found an old CB radio in the attic of his house, thinking this was the only way to gain answers, he spent day after say scouring the airwaves looking for any sign of life.

Shawn remembers the day he first heard the voice of John Connor. His father was perched atop a bar stool at his favorite workbench, he was hunched forward, his head in his hand, the other hand grasping the receiver and methodically rotating the knob on the radio to various frequencies. His father's face was the picture of desperation. His once close-cropped brown hair had grown shaggy. His brow was crinkled with numerous worry lines. His once clean shaven face was long gone; a scruffy beard now held sway, covering his strong, square jaw. His body language reflected the how sullen and obsessed he had become with deciphering what happened to the city.

The reports from other survivors had suggested that San Antonio was utterly devastated; the southwest area of the city was wiped clear off the map, the part of town Shawn's mother called home. This news crushed his father. He would lay awake and weep, filled with deep regret for leaving her to own devices, the guilt he felt permeated each room he occupied. Here began his obsession with finding his answers. All the while Shawn didn't quite know how to interpret his father's explanation of "Mommy's gone."

The only sound emitted from the aging CB radio was static. His father would occasionally repeat a plea into the receiver; "This is Frank Madison of Lampasas, Texas, is there anyone out there listening to this? We need to know what happened in San Antonio, is anyone receiving this?" No reply was heard.

Finally, like a light in the mist, a voice was heard from the transmitter. Shawn remembers his father straightening up like a shot from a rifle, and furiously adjusting the frequency to hear the voice better. "we…sur…we must band together now."

The voice rang through clear. Suddenly the room was filled with every survivor Shawn's father had taken in, the excitement was palpable. Shawn's father quickly hushed them to hear what this man on the radio had to say. Finally answers had come. The message continued.

"The machines are coming. Terminators, whose sole mission will be to hunt us down and exterminate us. The bombs were simply the first phase of Skynet's plan. You survivors have a great struggle ahead of, but if we unite, we can defeat the machines. Stick together and protect each other at all cost." The voice was strong and affirming. His tone of strength alone caused Shawn's father to sit up straighter. "The first waves of Terminators are out there as we speak, on the land, and in the air. Skynet attacked us, humanity, because we posed a threat to its continued existence. It will not stop until every last human being is killed. I promise you, in the coming years we are going to show Skynet that the human spirit is stronger than any bomb or machine it can create. This is John Connor. If you're listening to this, you are the Resistance."

The transmission abruptly ended and the room fell eerily silent.

Shawn remembered no one quite knew what to make of the broadcast they had all heard. Skynet? Terminators? What did it all mean? Shawn would find out in a few short years.

Shawn was now twenty-three years old. He sat quietly, huddled in the pit an old Valvoline, where mechanics would recede to work underneath the cars, near an old and largely destroyed highway structure.

He was well covered, never being a very tall man. What Shawn lacked in height he made up for in girth. He was a stout individual, thin due to the continuous shortage of food, but never-the-less built solid. His clothing reflected the life of a Resistance fighter. Old and tattered outdoor clothing mix-matched with military garments and gear they had been able to salvage, blotched with sweat and blood stains. The only bright color on his person his blood-red armband signifying his status as Resistance.

The little building smelt of old oil, the odor filled his nose and sent memories of his father working on his old clunker to the forefront of his mind. Posters peeled away from the walls and a blast crater from an HK's main plasma gun took up the space where Shawn assumed a reception area once stood.

The setting sun shined directly into the bays of the building. The days were still sweltering and sitting in this pit Shawn could feel the heat soak him through his clothes. Sweat poured from his forehead down his face, creating streaks where it cut through the dirt down to his stubble.

"Nuclear winter, my ass." He quietly uttered to himself as he wiped beads of sweat from his brow.

Shawn closed his eyes and focused all his energies to his ears, his rugged and war-torn face contorted in a look of total concentration. He was listening for the tell-tale sound of an HK's onboard engines.

He had been a block away from the Valvoline, cautiously making his way to his objective from one area of concealment to another, when he spotted the monstrous aerial tank hovering above what remained of the series of highway overpasses. He ran for the cover of the old structure as quickly as his legs would allow and dove into the pit; to be spotted by an HK so close to his objective would be disastrous.

He sat for a few minutes, listening intently to his surroundings, hoping to God that the HK would not bank in his direction. His hand squeezed the pistol grip of his SGL31, his index finger slowly shifting to the trigger. Finally, Shawn unclasped his eyes, and slowly raised himself up. He swung his rifle up and forward, just looking above the edge of the pit. His gaze steadily scanned the area in front of him, his heart beating rapidly, his breathe abated. His eyes darted up toward where the HK was hovering just a few minutes ago; nothing.

Shawn signaled his relief with a deep exhale. He stuck his head up a bit further and looked towards his objective just close to three hundred feet ahead of him.

_No aerostats_ he thought to himself.

Shawn placed his SGL31 on the concrete in front of him, propped his hands up on the edge, and lifted himself from the pit.

He snatched up his rifle and swiftly moved over the wall, standing flat against it. Slowly Shawn looked out from the relative protection of the wall, peering across the distance he would have to run to reach his objective.

_There isn't shit for cover out there _he thought.

Ahead of Shawn was a fairly large parking lot occupied by two burnt out sedans separated by about fifty feet. Pock marking the lot were various light poles that were next to useless as concealment from any mechanized onlookers.

His objective was a sporting goods store. He had volunteered to go recon the store in hopes of finding ammunition.

In the grand scheme of things, concerning the war on Skynet, the San Antonio front was insignificant. The big engagements were occurring in LA and San Francisco.

Further exacerbating the problems was the massacre of the Resistance command structure. Up until 2018, General Ashdown and Resistance command was the only source of supplies and ammunition available to anyone. Now that they were gone, they were receiving nothing but an endless stream of "We're working on it's."

The little rag-tag band of fighters Shawn belonged to was running desperately low on ammo. Shawn himself was down to his last magazine for his SGL31 and he had only two rounds left in his Ruger SR1911. Not much help to him if he were to run into a T-600 or T-700. Shawn's group figured a sporting goods store might have a decent supply of ammo, granted it hadn't already been cleaned out.

He had set out three days ago from their base of operations in the hill country near his old home. He didn't mind walking; it was safer than driving, though he was not looking forward to returning. If he came back empty handed, it would be a major disappointment to the unit. If he found ammo, than he would have to lug it all the way back on his own. All the same, he would rather take the risk than pawn it off on someone else.

So here Shawn stood, poised to make a mad dash for the first sedan. He leaned his rifle up against the wall and tucked the ends of the two duffle bags he carried across his back into his pants.

_Better to not have these things flapping in the wind, that would catch an aerostat's eye in a heartbeat._

Shawn retrieved his rifle and held it in a ready position against his chest. He locked his gaze on the first sedan ahead of him and poised himself for the first leg.

_Here goes nothing._

Shawn sprang forward. The sounds of his boots hitting asphalt and his frantic breathing filled his ears. He reached the sedan and drop to the passenger side of its charred shell, facing away from the road. His head slowly rose from the door; his eyes peered through the window, checking the area in front of him for any signs of movement.

He slowly lowered his head back down, collected his breath, and began the sprint to the next car. Each step in the open ground was a step too long for Shawn's comfort. He felt entirely too exposed.

He made it to the second sedan, squatted down and once again raised his head to look through the window. This car's window was blown out, offering him a clearer view of the area in front of him. It seemed unnervingly quiet. Machines generally patrolled these major roads frequently.

Suddenly a sound registered. It began as a soft hum in the distance. Shawn instantly dropped down and hugged the ground, the barrel of his SGL pointed towards the road from under the abandoned car.

His eyes darted side to side as the sound grew louder, the steady hum turning into a louder roar. Shawn's heart was beating hysterically, every hair stood on end.

The sound was close enough now to be recognizable: Moto-Terminator. One…no, two. Shawn looked towards the direction the sound was emanating from and fixed his gaze. His finger once again shifted to the trigger of his rifle as he aligned his sights with the road. The two motorized killing machines steadily came into view. In the blink of an eye they drew closer to Shawn's position along the access road to the highway. They deftly dodged piles of concrete rubble from the highway's infrastructure, all the while pressing forward at break-neck speed. Shawn remained absolutely still, though limited in their ability, Moto-Terminators still carried an onboard plasma cannon and if they targeted you, they'd be all over you in a before you could scream.

Shawn watched as the figures of the Moto-Terminators grew larger and larger, the sound of their massive engines growing louder and louder. He held his breath, tightened up and focused on the sights on his rifle as the two machines careened past his parking lot. The sound of their engines faded as they sped down the battered roadway, off to herald death to some other unfortunate soul.

There, lying on the warm asphalt, Shawn stayed put, his rifle still pointed where the Moto-Terminators passed. He waited to ensure that the machines didn't double back.

Satisfied that the threat had passed, Shawn hefted himself off the blacktop, and made one last quick scan of the area. Still crouch, he shuffled his way towards the front entrance of the sporting goods store.

It was a large outlet store with six massive automatic glass doors. Shawn didn't bother to test the doors as the glass had been shattered. Whether this was done by the blast wave or looters…he didn't know.

He kept his SGL at the ready as he cautiously stepped through the opening created by the voiding glass. The store was pitch black, lights hadn't operated in this structure for over a decade. He reached his left hand forward and switched on the Surefire tactical light on the fore-end of his SGL. Pointing the light into the store, illuminating his way, he steadily plodded forward. His head snapped from left to right, careful to keep an eye out for any movement. Anything could be in there. …Some gang of merciless survivors or worse yet, Skynet.

"Anybody home?" He quietly asked himself

Shawn strode through the store at a steady pace, his head on a swivel, his rifle pointing in all directions. The stores clothing was gone, likely looted. Any food that once held space on the front end checkout counters was long ago consumed. Shawn wasn't concerned with food or clothes. He moved straight to the hunting and fishing section, specifically the firearm counter. He cut down an isle that looked to have at one time housed fishing rods and supplies and came upon the firearm counter.

Nothing.

No weapons inside and no weapons on the racks above. Shawn sighed and hung his head. He felt deflated and defeated. He picked his head up and looked around, surveying the area. There was a shelf with boxes that looked like they contained shotgun shells. Shawn knew at least one man on his team had a 12 gauge. He slung his rifle on his back and walked over to inspect the boxes. Winchester 12 gauge buckshot…of five boxes only one had any shells.

"Shit." Shawn reached around; untucked one of the duffle bags from his pants, opened it up and dropped the solitary box of shells inside. "…better than nothing, I suppose." He said sullenly.

Shawn walked back to the counter. Inside he could see where handguns were displayed for eager customers before Judgment Day…before all of this. He read various labels marking which pistol or revolver was displayed there.

"What I wouldn't do for any one of these right now." He said to himself as he read the labels and descriptions.

He gazed beyond the counter and saw a few more little boxes. He placed the duffle bag along with his SGL on the counter and pulled himself over. Dropping down onto the other side he looked at a thin shelf that ran the length of the counter. In it he could see various boxes towards the back with different caliber listings.

His hope rose and he frantically reached into the shelf space to grab box after box. His hope faded fast as he realized upon grasping each successive box that these were empty as well. Not a single one of those boxes contained any ammo.

_There has to be SOMETHING here!_ He thought to himself.

Shawn walked behind the counter and back onto the floor, looking around desperately for any sign of hope. He paced through the area behind the many isles until he came upon a set of swinging double-doors. The sign affixed to the door said RECEIVING: BACK ROOM. Shawn swung his SGL back to a ready position and gently nudged the door open. He walked in barrel first, his eyes darting from his surroundings back to his sights. The room was pitch black, the only light Shawn had came from his Surefire. He brought his light up and slowly scanned the area. It was a large room with two steel sliding doors covering bays used to bring in trucks. It had massive hallways on either side, stretching down the expanse of the building. The main area was filled with shipping pallets strewn about the expanse. Towering racks designed to hold freight lined the walls down both directions. Shawn turned to his left and pointed his rifle down the hallway facing him and began to slowly make his way down.

He pointed his light towards his right where there were still some boxes and pallets with markings. He scanned top to bottom. They were all comprised of various outdoor gear. Boots, golf accessories, sports equipment; nothing he needed. This was the case all the way until the end of the massive hallway. Shawn pivoted and walked back the way he came, towards the other hallway. He turned his light now to the left, scanning the scattered boxes on the pallets. More useless equipment awaited him until he came upon the last section.

His light was fixed on one word that adorned every box from the bottom rack to the top for two spaces: ammunition.

"You've gotta be kidding me!" He exclaimed as he tore into the nearest box. Inside were an innumerable collection of smaller boxes marked 9x19 luger. He furiously rummaged through every box within reach. He had hit the jackpot. .45 ACP, 40 S&W, 9mm, 5.56NATO, 7.62x39mm, 30-06, it was all there.

Too much to fit into his two duffle bags. He quickly reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a small radio, quickly pressing his thumb to the call button, he spoke into frantically. "Jekyll this is Hyde, Jekyll this is Hyde, do you copy?"

"Go ahead, Hyde, we copy." replied a voice on the other end. "Dad, get down to the target location as quick as you can, I've hit fucking pay dirt, bring trucks!" exclaimed Shawn. "How's the area?" inquired the voice of Shawn's father, Frank.

Shawn quickly answered; anything to get them down there with those trucks as fast as possible. "Same as usual, HK's up, Terminators down. Now Dad, quit dicking around and get those fucking trucks down here, there's more ammo here than I can carry on my own."

There was a pause on the other end until Frank's voice broke through "It's too risky, bug out, RTB."

Shawn snapped back, a sudden flare of frustration enveloping him "No, fuck that, we need this ammo and if we just leave it someone else will take it, so get the fuck down here!"

This time Frank's reply was quick and authoritative "Shawn, nightfall is coming, those bastards hunt better at night, and you're asking me to drive our trucks out there to load ammo?" Shawn paused as his frustration gave way to reality. Frank finished "Why don't we just paint a big fucking target on the roof and have it say shoot here, please. Now get your ass back to base, that's an order!"

Shawn's mind was racing a mile a minute. He couldn't just bug out and leave all of these munitions to one of the city's roving gangs. He came to a conclusion, put the radio to his mouth, and with a resolute voice said "I'm staying here, Dad. I'll hold it down until you can bring the trucks in the morning."

Frank's response was rife with disbelief "Kid, are you fucking nuts? You're less than five miles from one of Skynet's staging areas and you want to have a sleepover? Negative, Shawn, RTB immediately."

Shawn was not going to give on this, he spoke into the radio one last time "That's a no copy on your last, Jekyll, maintaining radio silence until 0800, see you then. Hyde out."

Shawn shut off the radio and placed it back into his shirt pocket. He moved quickly to pick out a spot with a good vantage point and a viable exit if he came under attack. He walked to the steel sliding doors in the main area of the back room and made sure it could open if necessary as this seemed to be his only exit.

Shawn slid into a space between pallets on the bottom level of the rack facing the doorway into the room. Placing some boxes on the floor he managed to fashion a seat. He sat down and shut off his surefire, allowing the darkness to mask him. The only sound to be heard was his slow and steady breaths. He held his rifle at the ready, his gaze never leaving the doorway.

Shawn settled in for what he knew would be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Glimpses of the past were an ever-present entity in Shawn's existence. In moments of solitude his mind would recollect the weeks and months following Judgment Day.

Sitting there in this dark wareroom, he was alert to all sounds. His ears were always on the lookout for the heavy, methodical footsteps of Terminators or the mechanical buzzing of an aerostat searching for survivors amongst the devastated landscape. He learned long ago to maintain a constant state of vigilance and preparedness.

Here he sat, hunched over, leaning into the stock of his SGL, his eyes affixed to the doors in front of him. His eyes and ears were tuned in to his surroundings; his mind however, was elsewhere. With the fear of being discovered by Terminators on patrol at the forefront of his thoughts, his memories went back to his childhood.

**2003: J-Day plus 69**

Frank Madison stood upon the front porch of his once peaceful home, gazing to the south. The plumes of smoke still rose from the ashes of what was once the third largest city in Texas. It was only around noon but the days had grown darker. Clouds frequently blotted out the sun, further enhancing this feeling of despair that coursed through Frank. He leaned on the wooden pillar that rose from the top of his steps to the roof that covered the porch. His face bore the worries of the last two months following the devastation that heralded the end of the world.

He hadn't shaved or bathed since that day. His home had no running water; all he and the other survivors had was a well on his neighbor's property. That water was best suited for drinking, hydration was first, and hygiene was secondary. His clothing had become as ragged and poorly-maintained as his beard. Most of his shirts and pants had been redistributed to the survivors he took in. _Hell, some of them didn't have a shirt or pair of shoes to their name._ He looked down and ran his hand through his shaggy, unkempt hair, sighing deeply at the feeling of hopelessness that had enveloped him.

He turned to look into the window, into his house, too see the group of disheveled survivors he had opened his doors to all those weeks ago. _They don't do much_ he thought to himself, _can't blame them though, there isn't much to do, nothing but keep breathing…don't even see much point in that these days._ The refugees mostly kept to themselves, huddled in their groups, each of them discussing amongst themselves what they believed happened, whether or not to believe the voice they heard over the radio a few days ago.

This had become a hot topic of debate amongst Frank and his neighbors. Many of them believed this John Connor to be some loon with a radio. They found it more conceivable that some rogue nation such as Iran or some terrorist cell had launched the warhead. They believed the idea of robot killing machines called "Terminators" was about as ridiculous as it got. Frank's closest neighbor Jimbo was fond of saying that it was "just a bunch of nonsense from some nut job who watched too many damn movies."

Frank wasn't so sure. He remembered the day of the attack. As the hours passed he had no cell phone reception, no television, and no connection to the outside world. He thought it was some simple technical difficulty and regarded it as a mere inconvenience. He couldn't imagine a small terrorist group or a developing nation like Iran having the capability of knocking out communications across the country. It was too massive an attack, the pieces just didn't fit.

That…and there was just something in him that told him he had to believe this Connor guy.

Frank took a moment to look upon his own figure in the window. The confident, well-groomed, towering man that once commanded respect was gone. His blue eyes that had once exuded hope and wisdom were now reddened with grief. He had lost weight as he didn't eat much these days, his old work shirt and blue jeans hung loose off his now trim frame. His hair had grown shaggy and his beard had begun to cloud his strong facial features. Frank Madison no longer looked like the man his neighbors loved to invite over for bar-b-ques or birthday parties. He resembled a common drifter…in a way he was, a man lost in his own grief.

Movement in the window caught Frank's eye. It was his son, Shawn, scurrying across the floor with his favorite toy airplane, running around the strangers sprawled out across the room. Frank's eyes began to fill with tears and his throat clenched up. He could not look at his son, this little boy who has no idea what is happening around him, no idea of the fate that has befallen the world, and not feel as if he had failed. Failure was a feeling that had taken root in Frank Madison and not let go.

He had failed to protect Shawn's mother, his ex-wife. She was no doubt incinerated in the blast; she lived so close to Lackland. He felt regret in ever divorcing her, obsessed with the thought that if he had stayed with her, this wouldn't have happened. Thoughts of her raced through his conscious late at night and he would find himself crying himself to sleep, damning God for ever letting this happen.

In the weeks following the attack, he had failed to be the figure of strength and certainty that his little Shawn had needed. _Too damn caught up in my own grief to realize that my boy needed me more_ he thought to himself as Shawn turned and caught his father's eye staring at him through the window.

A smile crossed Shawn's face and he waved his favorite toy airplane at his father and continued to trot through the house, his toy held aloft, his mouth imitating the sounds of fighter jet coursing through the sky.

Frank smiled back as a solitary tear ran down his face. He placed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his gaze never leaving the form of his son. _Never again. I'll never let my boy down ever again._

"Frank, we need to talk."

The voice came from behind him. Frank turned around whilst frantically wiping the tears from his eyes. It was his neighbor Jimbo, around him were three other neighbors and ten of the survivors Jimbo had taken in.

"Hey, Jim, what's going on?" Frank asked as he attempted to straighten himself out. Jimbo stepped up the first step on Frank's porch, placing one leg on the initial step. Jimbo was a stout man in his late fifties, a native of the hill country; his clothing reflected the life of a hardworking farmer. He wore an old and faded baseball cap from his favorite team in Houston with a pair of tattered over-alls and well worn boots. His skin was tough and permanently darkened by days spent toiling in the Texas sun. His face was round and red, a pair of small spectacles covered his eyes, and his eyes looked up to Frank with a look of concern. Unlike Frank, who had lost weight in the last weeks, Jimbo retained his oval figure, accentuated more so by the belt adorning his waist, carrying a large-bore Smith & Wesson wheel-gun he only retrieved for hunting expeditions.

Jimbo was not the only man armed. A neighbor Frank had never been able to remember the name of was standing to Jimbo's left, an old WWII Mauser K98 bolt-action cradled in his aging arms, and bandolier of stripper-clips, loaded with rounds for the antique rifle. Looking at the man, you wouldn't be surprised if he lifted that rifle off a dead Wermacht soldier himself.

"Listen Frank, we're all runnin' low on supplies, food and water and such, and my well is gettin' awful low." Said Jimbo, his thick southern draw enunciating the concern in his voice. "We all got to talkin' and feel it be best if we went into Johnson City, to that Super S market down yonder, to see what we can find."

"Are you sure that's the best thing to do right now? The closer we get to San Antonio the more we could be exposing ourselves to radiation, Jimbo." said Frank, shifting his eyes to look into each of his neighbors.

"There ain't much reason to worry, the wind has been blowin' south, and one of the ladies I took in says there won't be much if any in Johnson City, she reckons it's far enough away from the blast zone to be safe." replied Jimbo.

Regarding Jimbo and his older neighbor's firearms, Frank nodded toward them. "Loading up kind of heavy just for some food and water, don't you think?" he asked, causing Jimbo rest his hand on the stock of his large-caliber revolver.

Jimbo stuck his thick chin towards Frank and stood straighter causing his gut to jut forward. He wore the face of an unabashed gun-toting Texan he had donned so many times before during neighborly debates concerning gun control.

"Better safe than sorry, Frank. We've all been holding up here for weeks, we have no idea how much has changed out there." said Jimbo as-a-matter-of-factly.

Frank was quick with his retort, an old custom of his and Jimbo's before J-Day had made a surprise return on his front porch: the argument.

"Sure we know what's going on out there," Frank said as he pointed towards the distant south. "John Connor said there were machines out there slaughtering people, do you really want to jump head-first into that, Jimbo?"

Truthfully, Frank didn't really know whether or not to believe Connor. He wrestled with it constantly. His voice was so convincing, there was something about it that just lent itself to trust. On the other hand, Frank had yet seen concrete evidence to support Connor's claim, only theories.

Frank did however like to occasionally ruffle Jimbo's feathers. Responsible for recent ruffling was none other than John Connor.

Frank's comment had the desired effect. Jimbo's neck seemed to swell and his face grew redder at the very mention of John Connors name. He snapped back like a rabid bulldog, his jowls shaking with fury as he spoke.

"Oh, cut it out with that bullshit, Frank. Look around ya, this ain't no goddamn twilight zone or "Star Trek" or some shit. Ain't never been no machines that jus' go `round killin' folks, ain't never will be. Ain't no goddamn net in the sky or whatever the hell he called it. It's all a load of Saturday mornin' cartoon bullshit and that Connor you done heard is just some whack-job who's out somewhere yonder getting his sick jollies off scaring poor, innocent, God-fearing folk. Now I'm gonna tell ya straight, Frank Madison, you bring up that Looney Tune one more time and I'll beat your ass blue with my Daddy's old birch switch, and you can believe that true as Texas is the greatest state in the Union."

Frank gazed upon Jimbo with a blank expression. Getting Jimbo all riled up wasn't as exciting as it once was. He chocked it up to another casualty of his persistent melancholy.

Jimbo, his eyes still keenly fixed on Frank's emotionless face and his temper brought back to a low simmer, continued as calmly as possible. "Now, may the good Lord pardon my language, can we kindly say fuck the iron, get your raggedy ass in gear, and hit the road?" His eyes went wide towards Frank as he asked this question. He persisted like a child grabbing for candy, "C'mon Frank, make yourself useful and jump on this with us!"

Frank ran his hands through his hair, looking back towards the window, images of Shawn running through his head. "I can't go, Jimbo." Said Frank sullenly, "I can't leave Shawn here without me, he's been through enough."

"Aw hell, Frank, bring him along." replied Jimbo, shaking his head at Frank's lack of initiative, "There ain't nothing to be worried about there, probably just a bunch of folks like us looking for food and water. Plus it wouldn't kill the boy to get out of the damn house. Now you listen here, I took in twenty people after that day, you took in thirteen," Jimbo threw his arm out, his hand pointing down the road, "Hell, Wilma over across the way took in thirty and she's sixty-seven years old. If the rest of us are running out of food and water, you damn sure are too, so go on get your things together, grab your boy, and let's go." He finished.

Frank refused to look at Jimbo. He was right; he had been running low on food for weeks now. Rationing had been the only thing that had sustained him, Shawn, and the refugees for this long. It wouldn't be long before they ran out completely. After an awkward long moment, Frank looked again at Jimbo, realizing that he was not going to leave until Frank agreed, knowing it was only because they needed Frank's pickup truck to make the trek. For months leading up the attack, Frank's truck was the only one within ten miles that still ran, mostly due to Jimbo's negligence concerning his own pickup. Frank sighed and threw his hands up, causing a grin to spread across Jimbo's round face. "Fine, you win, Jimbo." said Frank "Let me get Shawn ready, but if he goes he stays with me at all times, understand?" he added sternly, pointing a finger at his neighbor.

"That's fine, Frank, just hurry, we've already done burned enough daylight jaw-jackin' over here." replied Jimbo, adding as he turned to walk away "We'll meet you by your truck."

Frank turned and walked toward the front door, not bothering to acknowledge his neighbors as they made their way to his pickup. His mind was still trying to come to grips with what he had just agreed to. Was he really about to take Shawn out there from the relative safety of this house? The message of John Connor replayed endlessly in his head. He sighed quietly as he shut the door behind him, walking into the living room. _Maybe it's nothing, maybe Jimbo is right, we do need food after all…it's at least worth a shot_ he told himself.

He entered his house, looking to one of the unfortunates that littered his floor, "Where did he go?" he asked an elderly lady huddled amongst the band she had arrived with all those weeks ago. She did not speak, she merely pointed towards the back of the house, down the hallway that led into the kitchen. Frank nodded and made his way through the hallway into the kitchen in long strides. Frank didn't like that hallway; too many pictures of Shawn's mother from back when they were still a family adorned the walls.

He stepped into the kitchen to find Shawn sitting at the table, making mock landings with his toy jet fighter. For a second, a small window of time, Frank forgot the reality of his life Post-Judgment Day.

The kitchen was largely untouched by the disaster. The refuges hardly ventured outside the living rooms, bathrooms and occasional excursions outside aside. They never came into the kitchen, nothing worked for cooking. There was no electricity, water or gas, so it in the mind of the survivalist, it was a useless room.

As Frank's eyes observed the kitchen, he saw it as it was before this madness. The faint sunlight shone through the windows on Shawn's small figure at the table, playing this silly game without a care in the world. Frank stepped forward lightly, as if not wanting to disturb his son's imaginative bliss, the look in his eyes changing from concern to utter adoration. He stood behind Shawn, leaning down to wrap his son in a long overdue embrace.

Shawn tensed as he felt the first hug he had received from his father since that day everything changed. He turned his little head to where his father's head rested, "What's wrong, daddy?" He inquired. Something must be wrong for his father to act like this.

Frank stood back up and laid a hand on the shoulder of his son, gripping and relaxing while looking straight into his boy's dark brown eyes, a slight grin contorting his face. _Eyes like his mother's. _He thought to himself. "Nothing's wrong, son, just wanted to make sure you are ok." he said to Shawn, doing his best to inoculate as much of his tone with concern and comfort as possible.

Shawn looked back to his toy, whizzing it through the air while his father looked on. "I'm ok, daddy, I just hungry and bored."

Frank knelt down next to the chair his son occupied and placed a hand on Shawn's back. "Well, Shawn, you won't be bored today or hungry for that matter. You and I are going to take a little trip with Mr. Jimbo to the store, how does that sound?"

Shawn's eyes lit up as he shot a look at his Father of pure excitement. "Yeah!" exclaimed Shawn, his mouth agape with joy.

Frank couldn't hold back the laughter, being the first laugh from his mouth in sixty-nine days, why would he want to? He raised himself up once again, lifted his little son from his chair, and set him down in front of him. Pointing towards the hallway Frank urged Shawn on telling him "Well, let's not keep Mr. Jimbo waiting, go wait on the porch for me while I go grab a few things."

Shawn did not need to be told twice. He ran towards the door, his shaggy brown hair flapping in all directions and his hands rose triumphantly in the air as he repeated the word "yay" over and over like a mantra of elation. Frank walked slowly behind his son into the living room, as Shawn went out the front door in a whirlwind of joy, Frank turned to the huddled refugees congregating on his floor.

Frank took a knee in front of them, ensuring that he had their attention. "I and a few other neighbors are heading into Johnson City for food and water. With any luck we will be back tonight with fresh supplies." He explained. One of the refugees stood up to go along, a young man who Frank recalled hearing was seventeen…and that he had lost his entire family. _Travers, wasn't it?_ Frank pondered.

He was a tall and lanky young specimen. The clothes he wore fit over his frame like a bed sheet as they were Frank's. Travers clothes were almost completely burned from him when he arrived on Frank's doorstep with his group as he was nearly caught in a firestorm while working on his uncle's property in Bandera. His uncle was not as fortunate as Travers to escape. Frank had shaved his head when he first took him in; most of his blonde hair had been burned. His skin was a radiant hue of bronze from working long hours outdoors. He had a gentle face with large, round hazel eyes but it was not hard to tell that there was more churning underneath the surface.

"Now that isn't necessary, son, the truck is full anyway," said Frank, motioning for Travers to sit back down. "You'll be of more use here, holding down the homestead."

Travers reluctantly sat back down amongst his group, looking slightly defeated. No doubt he wanted to pay Frank back for his hospitality.

Frank had noticed a sudden shift in himself just then. Looking into the eyes of these lost souls, people who had witnessed their world torn from their grasp, Frank had buried his grief and despair deep down. He filled this void with courage and determination, he made a solemn promise to himself in that moment, and he decided he would do whatever he could to protect his son and these people. The message of John Connor resonated in his mind. He would make it his mission to salvage what he could of decency and humanity to provide these strangers a home.

Franks face grew resolute and he peered directly into the eyes of each person huddled together in front of him. "This is your home now and we are all now family. Look after this home and each other. We are going to survive this together, one way or another." He paused and locked eyes with Travers, the young man's face set in stone, he had soaked up every word Frank had just said. To a seventeen year-old boy who survived Judgment Day and left his families ashes in the rubble, it was as pure as gospel to his ears.

Frank looked over each man and woman that inhabited his floor and nodded to each of them. Before he stood he uttered one last phrase before making the trek upstairs: "Thank you, all of you."

Frank stood and began to ascend the stairs into the second story of his home. All the way up he could feel the eyes of his new friends remain locked to him. They were probably as awe struck as Frank was himself. It had taken some time, but John Connors words of hope and courage had finally taken root in Frank. He looked to the future with a renewed focus, beginning today with this excursion into Johnson City. He would return to his home with food and hope for a home to be born from this chaos.

_Thanks, Connor, wherever you are._

Quickly Frank retrieved an old green duffle bag that belonged to his father during his Army days; it would be big enough to carry some things. He retrieved a heavy winter coat for himself and Shawn as nightfall these days sent temperatures plummeting, even during a south Texas September. His hands fumbled around the top shelf of his closet space, searching for the old flashlight he left there for power outages.

His hand grasped the aluminum cylinder of the flashlight as it rested next to a stout metal box. Frank lifted the light from the shelf and repeatedly pressed his thumb to the switch to ensure that it was still working. Once satisfied that the light would last he tucked the hefty torch into the waistband of his jeans.

His hand traveled back up to the top closet shelf and grasped the stout metal boxed that rested next to his flashlight. He brought the box down and with his other hand he gingerly wiped the dust from its surface. The top of the box was imprinted with a logo that read "Sig Sauer."

The box had belonged to the 9mm Sig Sauer P226 he had owned prior to Shawn's birth. He had purchased the gun as a means to protect his new wife and himself. His father taught him to shoot as a boy and he was a more than proficient marksmen with pistols and rifles. He remembered being very fond of that pistol. However, after Shawn was born, his mother insisted that they sell the gun lest Shawn get his curious hands on it. Frank was forced to sell it to a friend of his; a deal he was not all too enthused about making.

Frank stared at the logo streaking the box, hefting the tin case in his hands. "I wouldn't mind having you back in my hands right about now." He said to the logo.

Frank didn't like the idea of going down to Johnson City with nothing standing between them and trouble but Jimbo's Smith and an old man's antique Mauser. This minute voice in the back of his mind rang through his consciousness; _something called a Terminator doesn't sound like it's going to take much damage from an 8mm Mauser round._

Repelling that thought was something his father used to say to him; "Now now, Frankie-boy, don't get ahead of yourself, you dwell on the what-if's enough and they have a nasty of habit of materializing."

With that comforting his anxious mind, Frank set the tin box back atop its place on the shelf, leaving the what-if's with it. He bounded down the stairs as quick as possible, deftly grabbing the keys to his truck off a wall hook next to the front door, pausing only to give his new friends a nod and salute, as if to say "I'll see you soon."

He flung the front door open and looked out to the gravel driveway that led to his porch. In the driveway where three of his neighbors and ten refugees waited for his arrival, all being thoroughly entertained by the whimsical antics of his six year old son. He shut the door and briskly stepped down each step and onto the gravel, striding to his pickup with the assuredness of his purpose propelling him forward.

As he walked around the driver's side of his pickup, he nodded to each member of the party setting out this day. All of them save for Jimbo's old neighbor who was preoccupied checking his Mauser's bolt for what had to have been the tenth time since he arrived, regarded Frank as a man who had just taken a massive shot of adrenaline. He certainly wasn't the same downtrodden vagabond they had been forced to strong arm just to go along with this little mission. His eyes and the way he now carried himself signaled to his neighbors that the Frank Madison they had all respected and trusted had returned and then some.

Frank had walked up alongside the driver's side door to find Shawn sitting on his legs, his short arms outstretched at nine and three o'clock on the steering wheel, frantically turning the wheel while making amusing car noises that sounded more like raspberries than a Chevy big block.

Frank looked at his son and a sly smirk began to form, "I don't think your quite ready for driving lessons, son," he said, suppressing a hearty chuckle. He threw the duffle bag in the cab, set the flashlight on the dashboard, and gave Shawn a gentle tap on the thigh, signaling that playtime was over. "Move on over now, Shawn, Dad will show you how to drive."

"When?" asked Shawn, ever the inquisitive type.

Frank smiled his biggest smile yet of the last sixty-nine days as a clever answer struck his mind. He looked at his boy as he climbed in to the driver's seat of the 1991 Chevrolet Silverado and said "I'll teach you how to drive when you can name every Black Sabbath record from '70 to '79."

"I can't count that high, daddy." Replied Shawn quickly, a twinge of disappointment in his voice.

This response triggered a chain of snorts and chuckles from the pickups other passengers as they each climbed in. Jimbo and another neighbor climbed into the back passenger seats, Jimbo behind Frank, the other neighbor to the rear of Shawn. The old man with the Mauser and the tag-along refugees took up seats in the bed of the old blue pickup.

Frank reached over and ruffled his son's hair as he reassured him by saying "You will someday, Shawn, you're the smartest boy I have ever met."

Shawn looked at his father and smiled, and Frank returned the favor.

Frank looked into the rear view mirror to verify that every passenger was well situated as he inserted his key into the ignition, bringing the pickup to life. He stole a quick look to the meter informing him how much fuel was in his gas tank. _Should be enough to get us there and back, _he assured himself as he threw the truck into gear and applied steady pressure to the accelerator pedal. The truck began to move forward, steadily increasing its speed. They were off.

Shawn sat in the front seat next to his father, his excitement was almost too much to contain. Shawn always liked Johnson City; the people at the store were very nice to him. He was happy to see them again. He turned his head up and looked at his father. He was different, his eyes were intense and focused, and it felt as if he was prepared for anything.

It would soon be made very clear how wrong every member of this group were.

Dead wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**August 2020**

The sound of a box falling from a rack ripped Shawn from his sleep.

"Goddamn it!" he hissed as he quickly wiped his eyes and brought his SGL to the ready.

He blinked his weary eyes furiously as they tried to adjust to the darkness of the wareroom. He shifted his focus from right to left, his eyes never leaving the aligned sights of his rifle. He was still trying to control his frantic breathing when the figure of a rather large rat crossed the floor in his view.

He sighed deeply as his head dropped in relief.

_Yeah, that was smart, falling asleep out here…way to go, Shawn…_

Still groggy from his unintentional nap, Shawn hefted himself from his make-shift seat and fumbled out from behind the concealment of the boxes. His legs felt as if they hadn't worked in years, all his concentration was directed to keeping himself upright.

He looked around and took inventory of his situation. Peering at the steel bay doors he could see the first glimpses of sunlight forcing its way through the cracks between the floor and the door.

Slinging the SGL behind his back he walked to the double-doors that he had spent most of the night watching. He quietly nudged one open and looked into the store beyond. It was as quiet and desolate as it was yesterday; it didn't seem as if any of Skynet's autonomous henchmen came through here.

While keeping his gaze out the door, he reached into his shirt's front pocket, retrieving his radio. Holding the door slightly ajar with his shoulder, he switched on the radio and pressed his thumb to receiver.

In a hushed voice he spoke into the little radio, "Jekyll, this is Hyde, do you copy?"

Nothing but static was his response. He repeated his transmission.

"Jekyll, this is Hyde," and with a little more urgency in his voice continued, "do you copy?"

"Shawn, is that you?" replied a young voice from Shawn's radio.

"Yes and that is not proper code, Wade. What the hell are you doing on the radio, where is my dad?" inquired Shawn, confused, but happy to hear a response.

The voice of Wade, the thirteen year old orphan Shawn's group had rescued from one of Skynet's death camps near Floresville two years ago, responded "He left with Travers and Roscoe an hour ago to get you…you oughta know he was pretty pissed."

A smirk formed on Shawn's face as he quietly asked Wade, "What time is it?" "0815, why?" replied Wade.

A flash of worry hit Shawn like a truck. _They should have been here by now._ "No reason, just needed to know," answered Shawn, adding "maintaining radio silence, Wade. I'll see you when I get back."

"Copy." said the young voice.

The sound of static suddenly made Shawn feel incredibly isolated. He dropped his thumb from the transmitter and tucked the radio back into his shirt pocket; doing everything he could to shake those thoughts from his mind.

Looking through the crack in the doorway Shawn was beginning to feel restless. He thought about patrolling the store to ensure that Skynet hadn't decided to drop in. He backed away from the door, allowing it to slowly and quietly shut, deciding that moving around too much might attract too much attention. Assuming his dad and his comrades hadn't been killed, they would need to move quick and quiet.

He would stay put and wait. He walked over the wall with the steel doors and sat down in between them, propping his back up against the concrete. He crossed his legs and laid his SGL across his lap. To assuage his restlessness, Shawn dropped his magazine from the rifle and pulled the receiver back, ejecting the round onto the floor next to him. He inspected the receiver, marveling at the efficiency and ruggedness of the Kalashnikov design. He reached to his right and retrieved the ejected round and slid it back into his magazine. Inserting the magazine home into the rifle he snapped the receiver back, the spring housed inside the casing of the rifle slapping the bolt forward, chambering a round.

He laid his back on the concrete wall and shut his eyes. Suddenly the radio in his shirt pocket came to life, a muffled voice emitted from his pocket. Shawn's head rocketed forward, his hand frantically reached into his pocket, pulling the radio free.

The voice came through clearer, the man on the other end whispering "Shawn…do you copy this? Shawn, come in…" Shawn knew this voice.

He thrust the radio's receiver to his mouth, pressing the button down he responded "Dad, I copy, what's your location?" A sigh could be heard from the radio, followed by the voice of Resistance Sergeant Frank Madison, "Thank God you're still alive, I'm gonna kill you, you know that? Fucking hell…we're about four blocks away from the store Shawn, we had to go slow, HK's are swarming all over the place."

A nervous feeling began to well up in the pit of Shawn's stomach. He began to doubt his decision to stay in the store and bring his unit into this dangerous area. "You can kill me later, what's your ETA?" asked Shawn. Frank replied "five minutes tops, where do we rendezvous?"

"Back of the store, two steel bay doors, tap once on the door and I'll open them up. We have to move quick, Dad." Shawn said, his nerves beginning to build. "Roger that, see you soon, stay off the radio." replied Frank.

Shawn shut off the radio and threw it back in his shirt pocket. He shot up to his feet and began to put his plan into action.

The aging wareroom was littered with a few old hydraulic pallet jacks. Shawn swung his SGL behind his back and grabbed the nearest one. He speedily pushed it down the hallway where the precious ammo rested. He pushed the two prongs of the jack forcefully under the first pallet of ammunition. Furiously he worked the hydraulic jack, steadily lifting the wooden pallet from the ground. Satisfied that it was high enough, he pulled on the jack, the pallet slowly inching its way out of the rack whence it rested. Shawn turned around, his arms behind his back gripping the handle of the jack. Leaning forward he arduously pulled the heavy pallet of bullets forward. He moved as quickly as could with the few hundred pounds of brass he towed. Sweat began to form on his forehead and he could feel his heartbeat rise at the exertion. _Damn, this son of a bitch is heavy_ he thought as he drove forward into the wareroom. He turned around and made the pallet do an about face. Leaning into the handle, he pushed the hefty load forward until it was right in front of one the steel bay doors. Pulling on the lever attached the handle of the jack, the pallet dropped to the ground with a loud thud.

Shawn winced at the sound and he froze. _Fuck! Too loud, you idiot! _

Shawn slowly pulled the jack's prongs from under the first pallet and, firmly holding the handle, ran back down the hallway to retrieve the second pallet from the floor.

Now drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, Shawn dropped the second pallet next to the first. He was pulling the prongs from beneath the wood when a firm rap on the steel folding door jarred him to attention.

He let go of the jack and bounded over the door. He bent down and freed the latch the held the door locked, grabbed the chain next to it and pulled furiously. The door flew upwards, winding on itself in a clatter that reverberated off the walls of the massive wareroom. The sun blazed through the bay, blanketing the main area of the wareroom in light. Shawn's eyes slammed shut reflexively at their first exposure to daylight in hours, his hand covered his face. He forced them open; they blinked manically as his retinas adjusted.

Standing under the bay was Frank Madison accompanied by Travers and Roscoe. They stood in the bed of an old blue Chevrolet pickup truck. The truck had been modified to suit the needs of the Resistance. Covering its shell around the engine and doors were pieces of mismatched steel to provide extra protection. The windows had been replaced by steel plating with slits at eye level to either see out of or point the muzzle of a rifle. In the bed itself a mounted .50 caliber machine gun stood atop a rotating platform carefully welded and secured to the bed and cabin. The M2 was the only one this rag-tag band had; next to it on the floor of the bed were three more cases of ammo for it. Unbeknownst to Shawn, they had taken the last of their .50 ammo for this mission. Lying down in the bed was the last surface-to-air Stinger missile the group had, a remnant of the final ammo drop preformed by Resistance Command two years ago, only weeks before Skynet massacred them.

Shawn looked upon his father; Frank's face one of concern, relief, and anger.

Frank had aged considerably since Judgment Day. His hair now grey and his once scraggly beard trimmed into a long goatee. The hair that had grown wild on his head was held at bay by an old bandana made to resemble the stars and stripes. His face bore the stresses of leading a Resistance unit for the last ten years, the names and faces of lost comrades etched into his eyes.

Despite his age he retained the commanding stature of his youth; he faced Shawn with his arms crossed, projecting his displeasure and presence. He wore a simple black outdoorsmen's shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, just under the red armband over his left arm.

His armband stood out; it signified his rank in the Resistance with the bars of a Sergeant First Class. He wore an old pair of dark khaki cargo pants that were neatly tucked into a well-worn pair of combat boots. The only weapon he carried was a .45 F&H pistol carried in a shoulder holster.

Looking at Travers and Roscoe, Shawn could tell that they were nervous and anxious to leave.

Travers had grown from the tall and lanky teenage refugee in Frank Madison's living room into a tall and well defined Machine-killer.

His face was marked with a large scar that ran diagonally from his forehead to his right cheek; a memento from a close encounter with a T-600's mini-gun. He kept his blonde hair close cropped like it was when Frank had first shaved it all those years ago; telling everyone it was a constant reminder to him of the firestorm he had survived.

His clothes were similar to Shawn's, a mix of hunting and military clothing, well tattered and worn from action against Skynet. The sleeves were cut from his fatigues; his red armband clinging tightly to his well defined arms. A heavy Kevlar combat vest covered his chest, loaded to the brim with magazines and grenades. His large build allowed him to carry an old .44 magnum Smith and Wesson 39 on his thigh, a Colt M4 Carbine slung across his back, and hanging from his chest was a Mossberg 500 twelve gauge pump-action shotgun.

Roscoe, on the other hand, was a short and stubby man. He had a tendency to shuffle when he walked; he seemed to be perpetually hunched over.

A few years younger than Shawn's father, what was left of his grey hair haloed his head, the top of his scalp exposed to the elements. He had a round face with tiny slits for eyes, covered in grease and dirt, giving away his occupation as chief mechanic for the small cell. His brown mechanic's jump suit was likewise adorned with splotches of dirt and grease.

He carried an old beat up M14 that always hung over his workbench at the base as he rarely came into the field. His finger nervously moved from a ready position to the trigger as his pudgy head swiveled around his thick neck, personifying his dislike of being outside of his shop. The only other piece of gear he had added for this excursion was a leather belt he wore over his jumpsuit, two extra magazines for his old semi-auto tucked in tightly.

"You're late." said Shawn, locking eyes with his father.

Sergeant Madison's expression didn't change. He looked right back at his son and sternly said "Cut the crap, let's get to work. Travers, get in there and help Shawn load this shit. Roscoe, stay in the bed and stack it"

Travers quickly climbed from the bed of the truck into the wareroom while Roscoe stayed put and Sergeant Madison ducked under the M2's turret, grasped the controls, and swung it up towards the sky to provide protection.

Shawn knew this was crunch time and his anxiety was peaking. Each moment wasted was a moment Skynet had to find them and take them out. He quickly set out to lifting boxes of the ammo off the pallets and handing them to Travers, who then passed them down to Roscoe in the truck.

Shawn was now dripping with sweat along with Travers as the last box was loaded into the truck. "We good to go?" asked Travers looking at Shawn. "Not quite, there are two more pallets on the top racks we have to get to." replied Shawn, wiping the sweat from his face with his shirt sleeve. Travers looked to his Sergeant, Frank looked at Shawn disapprovingly and quickly nodded to Travers, adding "Hurry up, move your asses."

Shawn pointed to the empty wooden pallets at their feet and directed Travers, "I'll grab these, and you grab the jack and follow me."

They moved rapidly; Shawn, using both hands, grabbed the pallets and hefted them up. Travers grabbed the jack and followed as Shawn made long strides into the hallway housing the rest of their quarry.

"Roscoe, get your ass in there and help them, we have to move." ordered Frank, his gaze methodically scanning the area and his thumbs resting on the trigger of the M2.

Roscoe grumbled incoherently as he leaned his rifle against the boxes he stacked and stepped from the truck's bed into the wareroom, shuffling as fast he could towards the two youthful figures ahead of him.

By the time Roscoe caught up, Shawn had already dropped the heavy wooden pallets to the floor and was ascending the racks to the final stacks of ammo boxes. He directed both Travers and Roscoe to catch the boxes he sent down to them and place them on the pallets at their feet. He moved quickly, sending case after case down while his two comrades worked quickly to stack them.

As the last box was placed, Shawn jumped from the racks and took up behind Travers 'pallet to help push it forward.

Travers pulled like an ox, and with Shawn pushing behind him, both pallets where in place in front of the bay in no time. Roscoe again took up his place in the truck bed, while Shawn and Travers resumed sending cases into his hands.

By the time they were finished the truck's bed was filled to the brim, some of the last boxes had to be placed in the cabin as they needed to leave space in the bed for one of the men. Roscoe covered the munitions in a tan colored tarp and secured the mound of boxes with various tie-downs and lengths of rope. Frank stepped down from the M2 turret and took up his place in the driver's seat. Once he was convinced the cargo was secure, Roscoe clambered into the truck to ride shotgun while Travers took up place in what little space was left in the truck bed against the gate, the Stinger Missile resting along his side, leaving Shawn to slide into the turret.

Frank turned the ignition and brought the old pickup to life. Putting it in gear he leaned back, shouting through the slit behind him, "Stay on point you two, here we go!"

The trucked lurched forward slowly, weighed down by its occupants and cargo; Shawn swung the Ma Deuce to his twelve o'clock to check their six.

They rolled along carefully; sticking to the surface roads, to travel on any major thoroughfares would mean almost certain death. Surrounding them were the charred shells of shopping centers, homes, restaurants, and single-story office buildings. The devastation of this once great city constantly confronted their eyes.

Even over the steady rumble of the Chevy's big block V8 Travers could hear a steady mechanical buzz directly above him. Shawn had spotted it too; "Aerostat!" he bellowed to Travers.

After all this time; Skynet had spotted them.

The little machine scout hovered over Travers, its disc-like frame swiveling back and forth, allowing it's optics to take in the entire sight. Travers quickly swung his Mossberg around, lining up the bead on the tip of the barrel with the Aerostats main fan that held it aloft, he squeezed the trigger. The double-ought buckshot ripped through the Aerostats fan as other pellets dinged off its shell. It dropped slightly and careening off to the right it smashed into the sidewalk.

Travers pumped his Mossberg, ejecting the spent shell and chambering a new one. He couldn't see Shawn, only the muzzle of the M2, but he could hear him. "Travers, get ready, we're gonna have company!" screamed Shawn. He leaned down and shouted into the slit at the rear of the cabin, "Dad, no more Sunday driving, shit's just popped off, punch it!"

Frank had heard it loud and clear as Shawn felt the pickup jolt and lunge forward, the engine screaming. Fear hit Shawn as he realized that any second now they would be taking fire with a truck full of ammunition.

Frank swerved and cranked the wheel in all directions, deftly dodging debris and rubble as he quickly accelerated.

A muffled boom echoed through the sky as the figure of an HK, its afterburners having just been engaged, hastened toward them from the southeast, growing larger and larger.

Shawn raised the muzzle of the Ma Deuce and shouted to Travers, "Don't let it get a shot off, get that Stinger ready!" From his position Shawn could see the butt-end of the Stinger missile rise above the boxes of ammo as Travers readied it for action.

Shawn knew the procedure for engaging an HK; _aim for its cannon, take it out, then go for the optics._ He had to take out its optic sensors before Travers could deploy the Stinger, or else the HK would simply dodge the missile and deploy counter-measures before it even got close.

Suddenly the HK was hot on their six. Shawn raised the M2's muzzle just above the cannon and let loose, gravity pulling the bullets down to their target. The truck began to rock as it pressed forward rapidly and Shawn's ears rang and popped with each successive shot from the .50. The gun's rounds sailed up and smashed against the armor surrounding the HK's plasma cannon, denting it's plating, and knocking the weapon around on its swivel. The HK banked left to avoid the large projectiles. Shawn swung the big machine gun to the left and fired more bursts into the flying death machine's cannon, frantically trying to stay on target as the truck swayed from right to left, rocking him around in the turret.

The HK banked hard to the right, quicker than Shawn could move the turret. Shawn looked on in horror as he saw the machine's cannon charge, the energy accumulating in a yellow ball at the tip of its gun. In a flash the HK fired its weapon, the ball of plasma energy crackled loudly as it soared through the air. Shawn closed his eyes as he felt his body being yanked hard to his left, followed by a deafening bang as the plasma shot made impact.

Fortunately, Shawn's father had swerved hard to the right to avoid rubble on the road, causing the HK to undershoot its target. Shawn snapped to and swung the turret to his target as he felt the particles of asphalt dislodged by the HK's plasma blast pepper his face. He once again aimed just above the cannon and let fly more bursts from the M2. The rapid bursts of heavy armor piercing .50 caliber rounds were beginning to wear down the armor encasing the HK's cannon. With each impact the cannon would bounce around and spark. The aerial HK banked back to the left and Shawn adjusted his aim, leading the machine into his bursts. Finally the cannon had taken enough punishment. A well placed burst from the Ma Deuce made impact on it's already battered casing and mount and with a small explosion, the weapon fell from its mount, leaving the HK unarmed.

"Yeah, you fucking bastard!" exclaimed Shawn as he began to line his muzzle up above the HK's optic sensors. Even without armament, HK's are still dangerous, he would finish this come hell or high water. He pressed his thumb down on the trigger of the M2 only to be met by an ominous click. His ammo had run out.

"Travers, I'm out! Suppressive fire, aim for its optics!" screamed Shawn. He dropped down, the report of Travers' Colt M4 letting him know he received the order, and grabbed a fresh can of ammo. He stood back up and looked at the pursuing HK. It was banking hard and to the right, Travers' rounds plinking off its hull around its red optics. The machine was no doubt staying on them until another HK could come and finish them off.

Shawn quickly removed the empty ammo can on the M2, tossing it down into the bed, and slid the fresh one in place. His right hand frantically opened the top of the can while his left popped up the receiver on the gun. He reached into the can and pulled the belt of rounds up and over the receiver. He lined up the first of the large rounds in the gun, pressed it home and slammed the receiver down, locking the round in place. Swinging the weapon in line with the HK, Shawn reached forward and pulled on the charging handle, making the weapon hot.

Placing his thumbs over the trigger, he shouted back to Travers, "Back off, get the Stinger on target!"

The sounds of Travers' M4 ceased and Shawn raised the muzzle of the M2 above the optics and pressed his thumbs to the trigger. Heavy .50 caliber rounds began to bludgeon the HK's hull. The machine careened back and the left but Shawn persisted. He held his thumbs on the trigger, relentlessly sending round after round towards the HK's red optic sensors. The sound of the Ma Deuce was deafening and the muzzle was screaming fiery blowback.

A small burst of glass from the HK's hull told Shawn his rounds had found their mark; its optics were shot to hell. "Travers, NOW, BRING IT DOWN!" he bellowed to his teammate as he let off the trigger, the barrel of the gun smoking.

Travers stood up in the truck bed, his feet wide in an effort to keep his balance while the vehicle swayed and bucked on the battered roadway beneath them. He raised the launcher to his shoulder and peered into the sights.

He lined up the Stinger's sights with the HK; an audible beeping grew more rapid as the missile's tracking system acquired a sound lock on the crippled target. The tone went from a series of beeps to continuous shriek, signaling to Travers that he had a lock. He pressed down the trigger and with a hard blast the launcher's missile screamed forth.

The HK's audio sensors had registered the loud hiss emitted from the Stinger. Its CPU instantly computed the sound and matched it with what it had on file. It knew it was a heat seeking missile but without its optics functional it could not tell how far the missile was from it. It attempted to do the calculations based on what its CPU knew about the missile's air velocity after launch while banking right, away from the sound of the report.

It was not quick enough.

The missile smashed into the HK's portside engine. It erupted in a massive ball of fire and steel with an ear-shattering boom.

The machine was sent spinning on its axis with the force of the explosion. It attempted to compensate with its starboard engine but it was a vain attempt. The aerial killing machine was sent spiraling down into a collection of hollowed out office buildings.

Before it went down it sent out one final transmission, sending its coordinates to Skynet.

Shawn and Travers hollered and raised their fists into the air. Shawn smiled as he caught his breath, unable to tear his gaze away from the inferno that was once this wholly-terrifying killing machine.

"Don't slow down, who knows that thing was able to send out!" Shawn shouted into the cabin to his father.

"Good job, son." muttered Frank under his breath as he kept his focus on the road.

"I'm never leaving my shop again…" said a rather distraught Roscoe.

Outside Shawn kept his eyes peeled, scanning the road behind him as the smoke plume from the downed HK grew more and more distant.

Shawn's father made a hard right down a road and Shawn's eyes moved to the new road behind him. They weren't even travelling straight before Shawn noticed the Moto-Terminators screaming towards their six.

"Travers, six o'clock!" screamed Shawn as he brought the muzzle of the M2 down. He wouldn't get a clear shot; the boxes of ammo prevented his gun from engaging. "Fuck!" he exclaimed as he abandoned the turret and slung his rifle at the ready. He kneeled down and leaned his torso out of the bed of the pickup, only to be met by the whizzing of bullets from the Moto-Terminator's 30mm guns.

Snapping his torso back, he took a deep breath and thanked God that his head wasn't just taken off. Once again he thrust his torso out and lined his sights up with the nearest motorized monstrosity. He squeezed the trigger of his SGL, sending rounds forward to pepper the Moto-Terminators armor, the stock of his rifle slamming into his shoulder.

The wily machine altered its course, avoiding the volley of bullets from Shawn's rifle, and opened up its own Gatling gun. Shawn once again retreated for cover behind the boxes of ammo, rounds from the Moto-Terminator's gun whizzing past, one even nicking the tarp that covered the boxes.

The machine was quickly closing on Shawn's side of the truck, in moments it would be right alongside him. There it could fire rounds into the trucks front tires and send them crashing in a mangled mess of blood and steel.

Shawn threw himself out again and lined up his SGL with the machine; he pulled the trigger.

Click.

Shawn took cover again, venting his rage towards his rifle, his last magazine having been expended. "Piece of shit gun!" he raged as he tossed the SGL aside and drew his Ruger SR1911 from its holster.

He only had two rounds left. They came this far only to be taken out.

_On your feet or on your knees, Shawn_ he told himself.

He squared up and held his pistol forward toward the road and flipped the safety off, waiting for the Moto-Terminator to come into his field of view. He would only get one chance at this.

The sound of the Moto-Terminator's engines grew thunderous as it moved up along the driver's side of the renegade pickup truck. Shawn waited with his finger on the trigger. Then the machine's optical sensors came into view. Shawn lined up the Ruger's sights with the lens that showed blood red.

_Please God…_

He gently squeezed the trigger. The pistol punched back into Shawn's hand as the slide came rearward and slapped forward, placing the last round into the chamber. Shawn squeezed the trigger again, the weapon pounding his hand as the heavy .45 ACP bullet screamed forth.

Those were the luckiest shots of Shawn's life.

The bullets smashed into the optical sensors along the upper portion of the Moto-Terminator's armor. They shattered, blinding the machine, causing it to sway and give on its balance.

Facing the slit into the truck's cabin, Shawn shouted hurriedly "DAD, NOW, HARD LEFT!"

His father did not wait, with a quick turn of the wheel; he sent the pickup smashing into the side of the disoriented Moto-Terminator. The impact was quick and violent, sending Shawn tumbling backward, his back slamming against the frame of the M2's turret.

Shawn's eyes watched warily as the boxes swayed ominously but remained in place.

The machine was sent careening off the road. It hit the curb of the sidewalk lining the road and was instantly sent barreling through the air.

Travers was faring better than Shawn. The Moto-Terminator he had engaged had not been able to fire off a single shot. Travers had immediately targeted its weapons, quickly expending all his magazines for his M4 to disable them. He had dropped his M4 down to the bed of the pickup and shouldered his Mossberg.

He held it tight to his chest as he squeezed the trigger, pelting the mechanized pursuer with buck shot. The shotgun's stock hammered his shoulder, but he expertly reacquired his target, pumped the slide, and fired again. The force of the shotgun blasts would shudder and cause the machine to veer off to either direction, keeping it from doing any damage to the vehicle.

Travers dropped his now empty Mossberg atop his M4 and drew his .44 magnum. He held it one-handed and pulled the trigger. The recoil of the powerful pistol sent his arm flying back, the round piercing the machine's armor, each round pushed the machine further and further back. With his left hand, Travers pulled a grenade from his vest.

He put the pin in his mouth and pulled it out, dropping the clip into the road, and held it.

He pulled the hammer back on his .44 and continued to fire as he counted down the seconds in his head.

At the very last second he tossed the armed grenade towards their pursuer. The grenade soared through the air and exploded just as began to drop over the Moto-Terminator. The blast shook the machine and caused it to lose its balance, sending shrapnel into its armor as struggled to regain its forward motion.

To Travers horror, the machine survived and emerged from the cloud of smoke left by the explosion. Its casing was heavily damaged, pieces of blasted and blackened steel jutted outwards, exposing its internal circuitry. Yet, it persisted, steadily gaining on its target.

Travers kept his steely gaze on the machine as he pulled another grenade from his vest. He repeated the process while expending the last two rounds from his .44. The barrel of his Smith & Wesson smoked as he looked upon the machine with complete contempt while he counted the final few seconds before chucking the grenade from his hand.

It exploded to the right of the machine. This barrage of fire and shrapnel did the trick. The machine was thrown to its left, the right side of its armor torn open by the blast; shrapnel shredded its internal mechanisms. The dying machine was tossed on its side, left there to watch its targets escape as its damaged power cell gave out.

A spark from some internal circuitry ignited its hydrogen fuel cell. The machine erupted in a massive ball of flame.

Travers' intense gaze never left the figure of the machine engulfed in fire.

"Dad, get us the fuck out of here!" shouted Shawn into the cabin of the truck. "Travers, you good?" he asked his compatriot. Travers responded with thumbs up over the stack of ammo.

Shawn released the slide on his Ruger, securing the empty pistol back in its holster as he again took up his position in the M2 turret. His heart was pounding and his head was spinning as his ears rang nonstop.

The hearty pickup sped forward along the broken roads of the city on a manic path back into the hill country. It was not yet ten o'clock in the morning.

_One hell of a fucked up way to start your day_ Shawn thought to himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**2003: J-Day plus 69**

Frank Madison kept his old Chevy truck's speed at a brisk sixty-five miles an hour down the highway. His band of neighbors and refugees had been on the move for the last hour and a half and Johnson City was well in sight.

The road had been clear all the way down. The wind was crisp and the temperature was steadily dropping as the afternoon wore on, evening made its frantic approach. The eleven occupants huddled in the back of the truck had already donned what cold-weather clothing they had, as had little Shawn in the front seat of his father's pickup. The young boy had spent the trip excitedly pointing out every animal that he spotted crossing a field or clearing, delighting his fellow travelers with their names as they spilled from his mouth in garbled fashion.

Franks gaze never left the road. As they approached closer and closer to Johnson City, Frank began to feel uneasy. An ominous feeling had invaded his gut. He was on full alert, something in the air just wasn't right. They hadn't encountered another soul during their trip down the highway.

In the distance, Frank could see the shape of car appearing. The closer he approached, the starker the figures of flames grew. His eyes grew wide, the shell of the car was blackened, the flames engulfed the cabin, and through the radiance he could make out the forms of two charred skeletons.

He pressed his foot to brake, abruptly slowing his truck down as he passed to get a better look. One of the skeletal figures was hanging out of the passenger side window while the other was hunched over the steering wheel. He rolled by slow, hoping to see evidence of what might have caused this.

"What the hell is this?" inquired a shocked Jimbo.

Frank couldn't answer; his throat was swollen with shock and revulsion. The smell of burnt vehicle and flesh assaulted his nose. All he could do was shake his head and reapply his foot to the gas. He saw nothing to indicate what set that car aflame.

As the group drew closer to the food market, the number of burning and abandoned cars grew. Frank had to swerve and slow down to avoid collision. All were dumbfounded at this discovery. "Okay, what in God's name is going on here?" asked Jimbo, his frustration growing. The truck's occupants attention was quickly seized by little Shawn, who was staring out his window in curiosity.

"Why are all those people sleeping out there?" he asked.

Frank, along with everyone within earshot of the little boy, turned their heads to where Shawn was looking. What met their gaze was more horrific than anything they had seen.

A vast field with gentle, rolling hills, and lying atop the long grass was a legion of corpses and body parts. As far as their eyes could see, human dead littered the ground. The green grass was marked by blotches of red. It was a massacre. Frank slowly brought the truck to a crawl, his muscles almost giving out at the gruesome sight before him. Bodies overlapped each other. The forms of men young and old, women and children blotted the ground. Mother's protecting their babies, husbands protecting their wives, all riddled with holes. Around the intact corpses, arms, legs, torsos, and heads littered the landscape. It was a turkey shoot.

"Good God!" exclaimed Frank.

Screams could be heard from the back of Frank's truck and Jimbo had begun to cough frantically, trying to catch his breath that had been stolen at the sight. Frank's hand extended, pulling Shawn to him, covering his eyes. The young boy was shaking, reacting to the fear and shock that had infiltrated the truck's cabin. "Don't look, Shawn." said Frank soothingly.

Jimbo leaned forward as much as his robust figure would allow and grabbed onto Frank's shoulder. In a hushed and frightened voice he said "Alright, Hoss, you were right, let's turn it around."

Frank looked into his rear view mirror. The huddled mass of occupants wore the expression of revulsion and fear. Two of them were leaning off the side of the truck bed, vomiting onto the road, the stench of the rotting corpses becoming unbearable. Their emaciated forms shivered in the cold. The old man with the Mauser was the only one with a stone-like expression, his head casually moving from right to left, and his old rifle held at the ready.

They were less than two miles from the store. Frank looked upon the gory scene in the field one last time and held Shawn tighter. He sighed deeply and pressed the accelerator down once more. "No, Jimbo, we've come this far, we're going to see it through." He said resolutely.

Jimbo fell back into his seat, deflated, his head swiveling about his thick neck.

The store came into view on the left. More empty and fiery vehicles littered the parking lot. Frank slowed down and turned into the lot, stopping near the exit onto the road…just in case. He turned to his side and tightened up his son's coat as his passengers began to file out. "Shawn, look at me," Frank said as he looked at his son's youthful face, "stay next to me at all times and do as I say, no matter what, you understand?" His boy nodded in agreement, worry blanketing his expressions. Frank scooped him up in his arms, opened his door, and ducked out of his truck.

Each individual within the group had their heads on a swivel. The old man with the Mauser was walking out ahead of the group, the stock of his rifle held tight against his shoulder. Jimbo was standing close to the truck, his door still ajar. He had retrieved his large-bore Smith and Wesson from its leather confines; he held it down behind his thigh, the hammer back and his finger just above the trigger.

Frank set Shawn down at his feet. Clutching the boys hand he walked to center of the group. He looked around, each face held eyes wide and darting until they rested on him. "Alright, listen up." He began. "We stick together, got it? No one wanders away from the group. We don't know what the hell has been going on here for the last few months and we damn sure don't know what killed all those people. Keep your eyes peeled, let's make this quick."

The group nodded in agreement and started towards the front of the store. They walked across the lot cautiously, the old man with the Mauser taking point, Jimbo walking near the rear of the group, while Frank pulled up the rear with Shawn following in lock-step, his hand securely in his father's grip.

The air was still and cold, the sound of flames crackling and shoes colliding with pavement sounded off with great force. Frank's stomach had dropped to his shoes. He couldn't decide if it was just hunger or the sense of foreboding growing within him. He scanned the path ahead of him for any sign of movement. As the group passed a burning mini-van Frank took a moment to observe it.

The flames were not as high as in the other cars spread about the lot. Whatever was inside had been reduced to ash. _God, I hope no one was in there_ thought Frank as he contemplated the massive holes that adorned the passenger side of the van. Frank knew those were bullet holes, but they must have been massive rounds to punch holes like that. The top of the van housed stacks of luggage that had been partially burned by the fires. From one of the bags hung a nametag that read Terrence Kitchner, the other side of the tag was a picture of a family. A man, a woman, and two children; two girls…one looked to be around Shawn's age. They were beaming with smiles that exuded happiness. The family all had hair as red as blood, eyes as green as emeralds, and each face was marked with freckles. _They must be the Kitchners…_ thought Frank as he turned the tag back over.

He prayed to God that they weren't one of the mangled families in that field.

Frank looked back towards the group as they slowly advanced towards the stores double doors. He took a few steps forward, tugging Shawn behind him, when the double doors came crashing down.

The glass and aluminum frame erupted and flew forward as a hulking figure came barreling forth. It was about eight feet tall with a charred steel frame. It moved on tracks while its torso twisted from left to right. Protruding from the torso were two arm-like wings, fully extended with two large Gatling guns hanging. It had a head, but no face, just two eyes of deep crimson.

The group shuddered backward, stopping dead in their tracks at the emergence of this frightening machine. Frank instinctively grabbed Shawn and hefted him up to his chest, nuzzling the boy's head in his shoulders to suppress the screaming.

The old man with the Mauser brought the rifle to bear. He pointed the muzzle directly at the eyes of the newcomer. In the blink of an eye the machine snapped its head in the old man's direction as its twin mini-guns swiveled towards his chest and opened up in fiery blaze.

The old man's torso was separated from his body in a hail of bullets. The rounds cut through and into those standing behind him. Half of the group was instantly shot to pieces, the air filling with the pink mist of blood, muscle fibers, organ tissue, and bone while those that were quick enough scattered in separate directions across the lot. Jimbo ran as fast as his legs would carry him to cover behind a burning SUV. Frank instantly ran behind the Kitchner's mini-van, the sound of Shawn's terrified screams pelting his ears, he didn't even notice the sound of the machine's bullets smashing into the van as he ran behind it.

Screams of panic meshed with the screams of the wounded. Frank peered out to see the ground where the group once stood soaked in blood. The wounded screamed and rolled around in their own blood in pure agony. The machine jolted forward, methodically, slowly rolling over the separated torso of Jimbo's Mauser-wielding neighbor. The cry's of the one of the wounded was abruptly silenced as his head was crushed under the machine's tracks. Other's screams intensified as the metal juggernaut rolled over limbs, crushing bone and nerve.

Frank looked to see the scattering survivors zigzagging their way through the parking lot turned killing field. The machine's guns quickly snapped side to side, sending long bursts of fire forward, chopping down survivors as they fled for the road. The remaining three survivors dropped for cover behind a sedan, barely avoiding another volley from the psychopathic machine.

Frank looked to Jimbo as the machine steadily rolled forward, the barrels of its chain guns spinning, waiting for a target to let loose upon. Jimbo was huddled up against the tire of the SUV he'd taken cover behind. A look of sheer terror covered his face; his skin was as white as bone, at least the portions that weren't showered in the blood of his companions. He stared at Frank, shaking with tears and sweat streaming down his round face.

"Jimbo, what are you waiting for?" Frank hollered to his neighbor, "Shoot the fucking thing!"

Jimbo's wide eyes slammed shut and he shook violently as another volley could be heard buzzing demonically from the machines chain guns. It was no doubt finishing off those who survived its first assault, the same it just minutes ago rolled over without mercy.

He brought his revolver up to his chest in his shaky hands.

Frank's hand searched the ground around him until it fell upon an old shell casing, probably from the machine's weapons. He gripped it in his hands and looked again at Jimbo, gesturing to him that he would throw the casing to draw the murderous machine's attention, so Jimbo can open up on it. Jimbo furiously nodded in agreement.

Frank looked at his terrified son and gently pressed him to the ground. He arced his arm back and flung the casing over the top of the mini-van. He instantly knelt low to the ground and waited. The casing bounced off of the asphalt and the sound of the machine's servos echoed across the lot as it turned in the direction of the sound. It slowly rolled forward to investigate. As it rolled forward Jimbo took a deep breath and slowly emerged from his cover. He faced the back of the machine. Jimbo could see its massive ammo pack and some of its servos and hydraulic lines. Jimbo pointed his pistol at the machine, and quickly pulled the trigger, too overcome by fear and panic to take proper aim. In a breath, Jimbo unloaded four shots of .50AE into the back of the maniacal robot. Two of the large rounds hit the ammo pack, puncturing deep holes, while one hit and severed a hydraulic line leading to the machine's left "arm". The final went high and ricocheted off the top of its skull.

The machine's left "arm" dropped to its side instantly, its mini-gun colliding with its torso with the loud clang of metal on metal. It turned towards Jimbo as quick as its tracks would allow and sent a thunderous volley of lead spitting in the direction of the rogue gunman. The volley was short lived. One of Jimbo's large bullets must have disrupted the feed capability of the machine's ammo pack as the loud buzz of the robot's weapon was abruptly silenced.

Jimbo retreated back to the cover of the SUV's tire, his face flushed red from holding his breath. He breathed deep and quickly, his puffy jowls expanding with each exhale. His revolver shook violently in his hand, so much so his finger unintentionally pulled the trigger, the accidental discharge scaring him further.

Frank looked to his neighbor and held his hand out, slowly pushing it down, as if to say "Calm down." "You did great, Jimbo, stay down!" he bellowed over the whirring of the crippled machine's movements.

One of the survivors stood up from his place of cover and began to run away from the scene. The machine quickly pivoted its torso and fired off a final volley from its weapon on the disabled arm. Though its right gun was unable to feed, its left was still feeding properly, and it was compensating for its damaged hydraulics. The survivor went down in an instance, the sound of large-caliber rounds impacting and tearing tissue resonating through the lot.

"Goddamn it!" hissed Frank. They were down to four from thirteen.

He looked at the machine. It was methodically rolling forward, twisting its torso and head, scanning the area for the final victims. Frank looked toward the bloody puddle where this nightmare began. Lying in the pool was the old man's Mauser. He had to do something to stop this. He looked again to Jimbo.

"Jimbo!" he shouted, getting the old man's attention, "reload and cover me! Keep that thing off my ass!"

Jimbo looked at him with a look of pure exasperation. He couldn't believe what his neighbor was doing. He shook his head no, not wanting to poke his head out from his cover a second time.

Frank's brow wrinkled as he shot Jimbo a venomous look. "Jimbo, cover me, goddamn it!" he hissed.

Jimbo was about to shake his head no again when he spotted little Shawn. The young boy was lying on the asphalt, tears erupting from his eyes uncontrollably. He couldn't hear what he was screaming, but Jimbo was fairly sure he read the word "mommy!" cross the child's lips. He couldn't sit idly by and allow this innocent child to die.

He quickly reached onto his belt and pulled another loader full of six rounds for his revolver. He popped the chamber wheel out and dropped the empty shells to the ground and slammed the fresh loader home. Slamming the wheel shut, he looked at his neighbor, nodded, and said "Ready when you are!"

Frank knelt down and kissed Shawn on the head, fighting back his own tears, silently saying to himself; _if I fail, I'm so sorry, Shawn._

He pressed his hands to the side of the van and walked his way to the rear fender, crouching down. The machine was rolling towards the final two refugees that managed to survive the slaughter. Jimbo had moved around to the other side of the SUV to avoid being spotted by the machine. This was their chance. Frank looked to Jimbo and nodded, signaling that this was the moment to act.

Jimbo leaned out from behind the SUV and brought his gun to bear. He lined the sights up on the ammo pack again and squeezed the trigger. The impact of the large rounds once again rocked the machine, the bullets slammed into the pack, burrowing their way inside, smashing the machines precious ammunition.

Frank lunged forward from behind the mini-van in a mad dash for the Mauser rifle. He dropped down and slid across the asphalt, his hands grasping the stock of the rifle, his fingers struggling to grip the wood with the blood that blanketed its finish. He propped himself up to a knee, bring the rifle up and the stock to his shoulder, blood now furiously dripping onto his pants through his hand's grip on the weapon. He lined the sights up with the machine that Jimbo had been peppering with his large revolver and squeezed the trigger.

Click.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" growled Frank as he pulled the bolt back on the Mauser, ejecting the defective round and sprinkling blood onto his face. He slammed the bolt forward, chambering a fresh round. He prayed to God that the weapon hadn't become too inundated with blood to fire.

He lined up the sights again, square on the hydraulic lines that ran from behind the robot to its tracks. He squeezed the trigger in between his rapid breaths, just as he was taught as a kid. The rifle cracked to life, sending its deadly 8mm payload downrange to the machine. The round struck the base of the machine's torso, sending a small spark upwards, knocking the killer robot of balance.

The machine turned its attention from Jimbo to Frank. It altered its course to roll directly at Frank.

Furiously Frank manipulated the bolt of the old Mauser, ejecting spent shells, loading fresh rounds, and firing. He was slowing the robot down, denting its armor in places, but it continued to roll towards him. Those red eyes pierced into Frank's very soul.

The rifle was empty and the bandolier with stripper clips full of 8mm ammo was destroyed when the rifle's owner was torn in two. Frank had taken a chance and failed. He would die. This machine would not stop, it was relentless, it was reach him and either run him down or turn its body to open fire with its working gun. Then it would kill Jimbo. Then it would kill his baby boy.

This thought infuriated Frank. He couldn't believe he would do something so reckless. As he stared into the lifeless, red eyes of this machine, his anger grew like a righteous fire in his gut. He raised the Mauser rifle, like a blood-covered, shaggy Davy Crockett, and looked right back into those menacing eyes with his own enraged berserker eyes.

"Come on, you metal motherfucker!" he screamed wildly, "Let's go, you fucking piece of shit, I'll smash you into scrap metal, you fuck! COME ON!" He held the rifle high like a baseball bat, tears of rage streaming down his bloody face. The machine pressed forward.

It was about six feet away when it began to pivot it's chassis to angle its one working gun at Frank. Its CPU could not compute the nonsensical sounds emitting from its vocal box. All the machine knew was that it was human and must be terminated.

Frank swung the rifle madly. The blood that covered his hands caused it to slip. It careened towards the machine as it was turning to get a good shot at him. The rifle spun through the air and slammed into the machine's head.

Frank was instantly thrown onto his back and felt himself slide across the concrete towards the shattered doors of the store.

The explosion was sudden and violent. The grenade round hit the machine just above its tracks, sending the torso and arms of the genocidal robot flying through the air.

Jimbo looked on in pure disbelief. One second he was certain he was going to watch his friend and neighbor obliterated by this Tonka truck on steroids and then he witness it erupt in a massive ball of flame.

"Everybody, stay down!" Jimbo heard a voice proclaim, a female.

He looked to where the voice came from and saw four figures. Three males and one female, all in military clothing, walking towards the hapless survivors in firing line formation. Their carbines held at the ready, they approached the fiery wreckage that was the machine.

The female of the group looked over what remained of the machine's torso. She saw that its eyes were still lit up red as roses. She raised the muzzle of her M4 right up to its skull and squeezed the trigger. A three-round burst of 5.56NATO screamed through the steel and into the housing for the machine's CPU, smashing it to pieces. The red illumination in its eyes slowly faded until nothing remained.

"It's down, target down," she said to her comrades. "Everyone, come on out, you're safe."

Jimbo ran over to little Shawn, holstering his Smith and Wesson, he scooped the petrified boy up in his arms. He trotted over to where the female soldier was standing over the smoldering carcass of their robotic tormentor. She looked at Jimbo with a face of obsidian. Under the Kevlar helmet it was beautiful but hard, and her eyes were piercing…she had seen things that gave her the trademark thousand-yard stare. She stood slightly shorter than Jimbo, but the amount of ammo and gear she carried implied that she was tough as nails. Her ACU's were darkened with dirt, sweat, and what Jimbo could swear was blood stains.

Jimbo patted Shawn on the back in a vain attempt to curb the child's manic cries and screams. "Thank God you came, thank you so much." he said to the female soldier, suppressing his own tears. "Who are you?" he asked her.

"Sergeant Regina Ortiz, United States Army." she replied quickly, "Who the hell are you?"

"The name's Jimbo," he said in-between coughs caused by the acrid black smoke rising up from the destroyed machine at their feet. "Myself and the…others…we're from Lampasas. We came down here for food and water and this…thing hit us. We're damn lucky you came along."

"Daddy!" screamed the frantic boy in Jimbo's arms.

Jimbo shot his face in the direction where Frank made his desperate last stand against the machine, Sergeant Ortiz followed his gaze. "Ah, shit, Frank…" he sighed

"Miller, go check him out, see if Crockett over there is still breathing." barked Sergeant Ortiz to one of her soldiers.

The young soldier slung his M4 behind his back and ran to where Frank's body lay motionless. He knelt down and put two fingers to his neck. Jimbo looked on; his eyes began to well up as that short moment dragged on for a lifetime.

"He's alive!" beamed the soldier, "crazy bastard is still kickin'! Strong pulse over here, Sergeant! Caught some shrapnel in the leg though, not bad, he should pull through!"

Jimbo could barely hide his elation as he turned his head toward Shawn and whispered "You're daddy's gonna be fine, boy, don't you worry."

Sergeant Ortiz nodded to her soldier and looked back to Jimbo. She felt suddenly distant; a remorseful tone grew in her voice. "You're the third group this week, we couldn't sit and watch it happen anymore." She said, showing a crack in her tough armor. "What in God's name was that damn thing?" implored Jimbo.

"Terminator. T-1 Battle Tank. Fully autonomous and linked directly to Skynet." She said stoically.

Jimbo couldn't believe his ears. That damned Connor nut had been right. He looked around him in utter amazement as the soldiers lifted Frank from the ground and hefted him into the bed of his truck.

"So you know that John Connor fella, do you?" said Jimbo, looking directly into Sergeant Ortiz's steely blue eyes.

Sergeant Ortiz scoffed, smirking sarcastically. "No one knows Connor, he's a ghost, but yeah we have been getting his broadcasts and putting the pieces together." She twisted her torso and extended her arm, pointing out the mass of bullet-riddled bodies. Her expression changed to one of urgency and a pain emerged in her eyes, something she had no doubt spent a great deal of energy burying deep. "This is happening everywhere, all over the world. Remnants of the U.S. Military and militaries worldwide are coming together to fight Skynet. But listen, this isn't the time to talk about this. Where there is one Terminator, more aren't far behind. So we'll help you do what you came to do, and then we'll roll out with you. We'll talk when we are out of this area. Clear?" She looked at Jimbo with the same stern look she sent to her soldiers, any trace of vulnerability had vanished and the professional had taken over.

"Sounds good to me, sister." He said, motioning to the two survivors he said, "Let's go, let's get what we came for and get the hell outta here!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**August 2020**

Shawn's nerves had now calmed. The truck with him and his comrades was now speeding along remote country roads towards their base of operations well outside the city limits. He stood in the turret, swaying with the motion of the truck, looking forward to a hot meal and the safety of the base. Camp Thermopylae it was affectionately called; named that after the famous battle in ancient Greece that saw the last stand of the three hundred Spartans and their king Leonidas. Many of the uneducated commandos who grew up in the dark ages of Skynet's reign, bereft of any education, did not understand it. Shawn was educated by soldiers that he remembered growing up with on his father's property; he read about that famous clash of bronze and will and thought it was well suited to their actions. He drew inspiration from events like Thermopylae where few stood against many. He was fortunate in that he was taught to read, to reason, and to fight. By age twelve he was reading any book that he could salvage and he could field strip an M4 blindfolded.

The base was formed on the property that once housed Shawn and his father before Judgment Day. Much of the complex resided below the ground; a maze of tunnels that took years to dig and secure. It had never been breached and had gone unnoticed by Skynet for over a decade. Inside the small cell that continued operations in the San Antonio sector planned and outfitted for raids and ambushes. It had become home to anyone who answered the call to fight Skynet; a beacon of hope in a barren and dark world.

They were close now, even with having to avoid the direct route over the highway; Shawn's father could get them there in a matter of hours. Travers sat in the aft end of the truck bed, his stoic gaze set to the horizon. He was one of those few who never seemed to be fazed by brushes with death or battle. Quiet and reserved, he spoke little; when he did it was direct and purposeful.

Inside the truck Roscoe was fast asleep, snoring contently in the front seat; product of a massive adrenaline dump. Meanwhile, Shawn's father was concentrating on the road. He maintained a high speed, turning along the windy roads at the maximum speed allowable, just enough braking to keep the truck from flipping into a ditch. He knew too much time out in the open gave Skynet the opportunity to spot you. He was well aware that they had neither the time nor the munitions available to survive another assault.

The sun was high in the sky. Shawn looked up and covered his eyes with his arm, guessing that is must be just after 1300 hours. Only a few hours into the day and he was already feeling the onset of exhaustion. He was very much looking forward to his Spartan quarters and the cot that resided there.

Shawn's father took an abrupt and sharp turn; signaling they had arrived on the road that led directly to Camp Thermopylae. Shawn snapped to and felt his elation rise. After spending the night in Skynet's backyard in a cramped and dark space; the prospect of friendly faces overjoyed him. Looking towards the back of the truck where Travers resided, Shawn braced himself, gripping on to the framework of the Ma Deuce's turret.

As the truck sped forward the ground suddenly dropped beneath them. To any eye in the sky, the truck would have simply disappeared into the earth or as the camouflage implied: a group of bushes. Shawn was flung forward against the turret as the truck went down the steep and camouflaged ramp that led into the tunnels of Camp Thermopylae. He was suddenly engulfed in darkness and the light of the tunnels entry-way faded fast as the truck sped forward. Just as his eyes adjusted the soft glow of iridescent light-bulbs filled the tunnel. They lined the concrete walls that lead into the bowels of Camp Thermopylae. It wasn't long ago that Shawn remembered digging this tunnel, his only light being a torch, and the walls being soft dirt and mud.

The truck's brakes screeched as they exited the tunnel and arrived in the main staging area of the camp. It was a large bunker complex resembling an aircraft hanger under the soil. It was lined from top to bottom with steel reinforced concrete. Lights hung from the ceiling, blanketing the area in a soft glow. It had therefore been called "The Hangar" by the camp's occupants.

While digging the first tunnel all those years ago, the group came upon a natural cavern that rested underneath the old house. Over time they braced the ceiling with wooden support beams. With the salvaging of concrete and rebar from rubble in the city, they constructed the sturdy frame of what was to become to main complex of Camp Thermopylae. The effort took years of toil but ultimately, the construct of their forward operating base was completed and their ability to instigate action escalated.

Strewn about the expanse were three more vehicles that had been recovered and modified to suit their purposes. Groups of men and women walked about or sat atop empty ammo crates. This was where the small community congregated. In the middle of the room a group of fighters encircled two young soldiers who had taken it upon themselves to discover who the dominant wrestler was. At various points in the room entrances to other tunnels emerged, leading to the barracks, armory, communication room, and officers quarters. The layout and stripped-down, concrete –covered appearance suggested military planning and design. One of the benefits of Sergeant Frank Madison and his neighbor Jimbo taking in a stranded team of military survivors after Judgment Day, men and women who became Shawn's teachers.

The truck screeched to an abrupt halt, catching the attention of all in the hangar. The grumbling of the old Chevy's engine ceased and Sergeant Madison barreled out of the driver's side door. His face wore the look of a man who was not to be trifled with. Pointing to the rambunctious soldiers sparring on the floor, he bellowed. "You two knock that shit off!" looking at those huddled around them he continued his tirade, "All of you quit fucking around! Unload this ammo, sort it, and distribute it, on the fucking double!"

The soldiers on the floor shot up and ran to the truck. Shawn ducked under the turret, grabbed his rifle, and slowly climbed out as the mass of guerillas swarmed the truck bed. He nodded at them as he exhaled a deep sigh of relief at being home. Travers hefted himself up and jumped out the truck bed, reaching back inside to gather his empty weapons and slinging them over his shoulder. As arms extended to unravel the ropes and tie downs holding the precious boxes in place, he reached in again to gather his empty magazines; nothing went to waste here. Roscoe lazily slid out of the truck's passenger seat, yawning and stretching as his feet hit the concrete. A soldier pulled the tan tarp off the stacks of ammo and unfurled it, exposing the few bullet holes that alluded to the group's action of the day. Looking at Roscoe, the young private held the tarp up. Exposing the holes he quipped with a wide grin "Hey Roscoe, get some company out there, did you?" Roscoe shot the youth a scornful look, his squinty eyes almost shutting fully with the glare he produced. Throwing his rifle on his shoulder, Roscoe returned the smart remark with "No shit, Sherlock, compliments of Corporal Madison's reckless ass." The young soldier laughed as he rolled the tarp up in his arms and Roscoe shuffled away, his curmudgeonly grumbles barely audible amid the sound of his shoes sliding along the concrete.

Shawn had begun to walk away from the chaos of the soldiers unloading ammo when his father turned his fury to his direction; "Shawn, get your ass in my quarters, NOW!"

Shawn stopped and looked back to see his father taking long strides down the tunnel that led to his quarters. He sighed, desiring a warm cot and a few hours of rack time rather than another verbal shellacking. He slung his empty rifle over his shoulder as Travers walked past him. Smiling, Travers placed a hand on Shawn's shoulder, and expressed his support with one word from his raspy throat: "Busted."

Shawn couldn't suppress his laughter, his head falling forward as he chuckled at Travers' dry humor. He slapped his friend on the shoulder, saying "Yeah, no shit, right?" his tone changing suddenly as he looked into Travers' stone-like face, "Listen, thanks for coming out there, couldn't have done it without you."

Travers let go of Shawn's shoulder and smiled once again. With a nod he signaled his acknowledgement by flipping Shawn the bird with a gritty chuckle.

Shawn laughed once more and began to walk towards his father's quarters, leaving his comrade to refit and rest up. Each step down the tunnel that led to his father's office felt heavier than the last. He knew he took a big risk and he knew full well his father, the Sergeant and now leader of this cell, was not in the risk-taking business. Shawn was not totally worried, though. He had been reamed by his dad for years now, it was a few minutes of shouting and profanity, followed by the fatherly "I love you, son, don't do that crap again, I couldn't stand losing you." Blah, blah, blah then it would be rack time. However, he had the feeling that this was different, that he was going to be in for more than the usual.

Thirty paces into the tunnel he came to the door that led into his father's quarters. The door was cracked open so Shawn gently pushed it further, quietly stepping in. Sergeant Madison's office was as softly lit as the rest of the base. It was a modest room; nothing illustrious was to be found in Camp Thermopylae. The Hangar was expansive, but every other room was small, big enough to fit only the essentials. In the middle of the office was a battered aluminum desk; strewn about the top were maps, after-action reports dating back months, intelligence on Skynet's latest movements, and disciplinary action reports on a few of the more scrappy soldiers. Behind the desk was a smaller wooden table harboring the radio that Sergeant Madison used to communicate with units in the field and command over in Los Angeles. On the far left side of the room, Sergeant Madison's cot rested, above it hung pictures of his late ex-wife, Shawn in his infancy up to the end of the world, and a pair of dog tags. Shawn could not look at those dog tags, his gaze immediately shifting back to his father.

Frank Madison was standing over his desk, his eyes glaring at Shawn, as if to pierce him with his anger. "Just what the fuck were you thinking, boy?" he asked fiercely. Veins protruded from his neck and his anger seethed to the surface.

Shawn stood his ground, his hands on his hips, his steely gaze locked with his father's fiery eyes. "I was thinking that we desperately needed ammo." He began calmly, continuing with growing agitation in his voice, "I was thinking that there was too much to carry on my own. I was thinking that leaving it would be stupid. I was thinking that the city's gangs didn't need any more ammo. I was thinking that we were pretty fucking lucky to find it." His voice grew louder and sterner as his father's expression registered more displeasure with his son's growing tone of defiance. "Moreover, I was thinking that I didn't fucking hump my ass across three counties for three days to walk my happy ass back here empty handed..." he finished with a loud and sarcastic "SIR!".

His father's face grew red with rage and his fists balled up as he slammed them down on the desk, scattering papers in all directions. "Alright, Billy fucking bad ass!" he began, "I'm getting sick and fucking tired of this macho guerilla extraordinaire bullshit! You took a stupid fucking risk that nearly got you, me, Travers and Roscoe killed today. What good would that have done us? Is your life worth more than theirs? They didn't have to go out there and risk their ass to get you. If you weren't my son I would have let you rot, stupid stunts like that deserve to get reckless motherfuckers killed."

Shawn hung his head at that remark. His father's leadership role had brought with it many instances of making life or death decisions on one too many occasions. Each one weighed heavy on him, the prospect of making one of those calls concerning his son no doubt was his worst nightmare.

Sergeant Madison wasn't done; his rage barely subsiding. "You may think you're fucking special or indestructible, but welcome to reality boy, you're just another walking target for Skynet. We were fucking lucky today, that's all there is to it. Luck runs out, Shawn. If you keep this shit up, sooner or later, you're not going to slip through those fucking crosshairs! Next time you might get a lot of good men and women killed, and for what? Furthermore, shit head, I won't always fucking be there to bail your dumb ass out!" He paused, catching his breath, collecting himself while still maintaining the colossal stare down with his son.

Shawn sighed heavily, every word from his father hitting him hard. He suddenly felt incredibly weak, his body feeling heavy. He grabbed a chair that was up against the wall near the door. Swinging his SGL forward he dropped down onto chair, instantly slouching forward, breaking eye contact with his fuming father.

Sergeant Madison looked at his son, who suddenly permeated the room with his exhaustion and feeling of defeat. He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily, looking down at his desk. "Look, you made a mistake in staying there and making us roll in to Skynet's backyard to get you. But…damn if you didn't come through for us."

Shawn picked his now heavy head up to look at his father. The expression had changed from unbridled rage back to the look of fatherly concern. Sergeant Madison continued, "Look, Shawn, I just couldn't take losing you to Skynet…we've lost so many already." His father's eyes turned to the dog tags that hung from his wall and for a moment it looked as if tears might form in his eyes. He snapped his head back to his son, sitting down in his chair and gathering his jumbled papers.

"I need you alive and kicking, son. We've got some major shit on the horizon and I need your help with it. As second-in-command you're the only one with authority to call me on my bullshit. So from here on out, no crazy fucking stunts, you got it?" Sergeant Madison finished as his gaze shifted to his papers.

Shawn's attention suddenly honed in on what his father just said, questions screamed to the surface. "Whoa, whoa, whoa back up, Dad." He said, leaning his arms against his father's desk. "What major shit do we have coming up?"

Frank Madison looked again to his son whose face was rife with confusion. He grabbed his glasses from the drawer of his desk and wrapped them around his ears, a consolation gift from his newfound friend old age. "I suppose it's a good time to bring you up to speed, huh?" Shawn sat back and threw his arms out in a gesture of exasperation. "You think? Spill it, Dad; you know how I hate being left in the dark."

"Alright, here's what's up," began Sergeant Madison, his demeanor changing from father to field commander in an instant. "I've been in communication with General Connor for the past three weeks. He's expressed to me his goal of wiping out Skynet's production factory in Dallas. He's been ordering attacks on Terminator factories across the country and Dallas is up next."

Tilting his head, Shawn shot a perplexed look at his father. "Okay…so what does that have to do with us? Does he want to send us up to Dallas, or something?" he asked.

"No, the Dallas cell is well equipped to take that facility without us being there. Think broader, Shawn, what does the Dallas cell have to take out to get into the factory?" asked Frank. "The perimeter defenses, obviously. Every Skynet facility is sealed up tighter than a dolphin's ass. It's bound to have perimeter cannons, roving patrols of Terminator squads, HK air support…the works." replied Shawn.

"And where do those HK's come from?" asked Frank, hoping to get his son to connect the dots.

"Well Lack…" Shawn paused, his eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped. He shot to his feet, leaning forward slicing the air with his hand he snapped, "No fucking way. Absolutely not, Dad, that's insane. We cannot take Lackland, period end of fucking story."

Lackland Air Force Base had been Skynet's target on Judgment Day. The installation had been decimated by the nuclear warhead, reduced to ash, a radioactive crater taking its place. As the machines steadily took control, Skynet initiated a massive construction project on the site of the former Air Force base. Once the radiation and fallout in the area began to dissipate, Skynet brought in human prisoners, a workforce of organic slaves it had seized from the rubble of the city. Under the direction of the tyrannical system and its mechanical henchmen, the laborers began the task of building monolithic airfields and hangar complexes. Over the course of five years and hundreds of human lives lost due to cancer from irradiated earth or merciless Terminators; Skynet had built a hub for its new line of autonomous aerial drones: The Hunter-Killer. At the site, the HK's could land for refueling, repair, resupply of ammo. Fresh HK's from the factories landed and set up base there. From the hangars and airfields they would launch to deliver death and destruction to Skynet's human enemies across the four states surrounding Texas and the rest of the Midwest. On site was a radio tower that reached high into the sky enabling Skynet's direct link with its machines, being on the base it was assured that no resistance could destroy it. Around the complex of landing zones and hangars Skynet had the remaining workers build a gargantuan wall complete with automated sentry cannons with the imperative of eradicating anything that came within range. Further bolstering Lackland's defenses was a five-mile perimeter with yet more sentry cannons and augmented by twenty-four hour patrols by squads of T1's, T-600's, and T-700's. It was virtually impenetrable.

Stories told of a mile long mass grave that held the remains of the slaves Skynet killed off just beyond the outer perimeter.

"Now listen, Shawn, if we don't hit Lackland the Dallas cell will be shredded before they can even give Skynet a black eye. We have to hit it." implored Shawn's father.

"Dad, even if Connor sent us his entire fucking division, we couldn't take Lackland. It's fucking suicide, I can't believe you've even thought about it, and you call me reckless?" Shawn exclaimed, his frustration mounting. "And why don't you think it can be done?" asked Frank. "Hmm, let's see Dad, maybe it's because you are talking about attacking the most fortified facility Skynet has for hundreds of miles, more fortified than the Dallas factory, with nothing but sixty men and women with only small arms!" said Shawn sarcastically.

"Well if we don't who will? If we do this, if we knock out Skynet's air power, than those boys in Dallas can level that factory. If they take it out, we cut Skynet's production of Terminators in the Southwest and Midwest sector by fifty percent, Shawn, fifty!" Frank proclaimed, a glimmer of hope arising in his voice.

"If Connor is so keen on taking out the factory, then let his royal ass come down here and assault Lackland! We shouldn't be the sacrificial fucking lambs here, Dad!" snapped Shawn. "Fuck Skynet's production numbers, it won't mean a damn thing to us when all the HK's in Lackland come screaming up our ass!" he continued.

"I don't get it, Shawn," said Frank, clearly stunned by his son's reaction. "We have this opportunity to deal Skynet a serious kick to the balls and you're saying we should throw in the towel and lay low."

Shawn's expression turned deathly grave as he looked his father in the eye, his eyes more serious than they have ever been. "Do you know what's going to happen if we try to attack Lackland?" he began in a hushed voice. "Allow me to enlighten you, Dad. No one has ever got within five miles of the airfields. We would approach the outer perimeter and in a micro-second we would take fire from any one of the many sentry cannons out there. We might take out one, but every other one surrounding the base will simply target us and open up. We would be decimated before we even got close to the walls."

Frank shook his head and leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head.

Shawn continued, "Say for arguments sake we miraculously managed to get past the sentry guns. Now we are looking at squads of walkers and rollers, T1's or 600's, maybe a few divisions worth. We might take down a few, but we'd be making a very small dent in the number of metals out there. Fuck it, let's say our bullets are blessed and we make it past that, there's still the wall. It's supposed to be twenty feet thick steel-reinforced concrete with…wait for it…more sentry cannons. We can't scale it, we'd be sitting ducks and the machines would just pick us off piece meal. If we managed to blast through it, we would have every HK in the state throwing everything they have at us. Hey, newsflash Dad, we have NOTHING to take down HK's. Do you expect us to shoot down a Hunter-Killer with an assault rifle? We have one; count it, one box of ammo for the M2 on the truck. It took two to bring down that HK this morning and it nearly got us, or have you forgotten?"

"Are you finished?" asked Sergeant Madison.

"Dad, it's a fucking suicide run, don't you fucking get it? We don't have the men, the weapons, or the supplies to pull it off! Not mention the fact that all the intel we have on Lackland is speculative!" shouted Shawn, dumbfounded at his father's reaction.

"General Connor has promised supplies and he's ordered the cells from Corpus Christi, Austin and Houston down to supplement our forces. With their help we will have 248 men and women at arms, more than doubling our force." said Sergeant Madison as-a-matter-of-factly.

"Oh and we're supposed to trust that shit?" Shawn retorted with pure venom in his voice. "Why shouldn't we, this is John Connor we're talking about, Shawn. According to him those units are already on the move." replied his father.

Shawn couldn't suppress the look of disgust that ripped across his face, "Give me a fucking break, dad! He's command now, new face same shit. Ashdown promised us ammo and medical supplies and what did we get? A drop once in a blue fucking moon! Connor is no fucking different. We've been bugging them for resupply since his unit took over and all we've received for our troubles was vague answers. Where was Connor when we first started taking the fight to Skynet? Where was Connor when I was hiking through Skynet's territory to find bullets? Better yet, where the fuck was Connor when we hit that death camp in Floresville?" Shawn snorted with revulsion at his father's blind faith, his temper peaking, Shawn pressed on, digging deeper into his father's fresh wounds. "Is that it, Dad? Are you so obsessed with getting Skynet back that you willingly send all of us to our deaths? Is that how you intend to honor her memory? Is getting yourself killed going to make up for losing her? Is the massacre of this unit worth sending a little payback Skynet's way, Dad?"

That last comment struck Frank Madison deep. Floresville had been their unit's darkest day, an utter failure that cost the lives of the majority of their cell…including one member that Frank felt the sting of grief for every minute of every day.

His father's brow contorted with a sudden flash of anger. "Don't you dare bring that up, Shawn. How dare you! That wasn't command's fault…it…it was mine." His expression turned to one of weary grief. A weight appeared and dropped his shoulders down, making him appear as old as his age implied. "A lot of things went wrong on that op, we all suffered, and don't you fucking dare spit on the memory of those men and women that died there." He said slowly. Looking back at Shawn the rage reemerged with a sudden flash of fury. "I have half a mind to reach over there and put you in the fucking infirmary you hear me, boy?" he ended with a rousing shout of fresh indignation.

Shawn knew the moment those words left his mouth that he had crossed the line. The memory of that tragic mission was still fresh in the minds of those who survived it...Shawn being no different. He sat back and quietly said "I'm sorry, Dad…I just don't see how you can trust people who've never cared about what goes on in our little patch of hell." He said flatly, continuing the questioning of his father's trust. "I mean, sure Connor is going to promise you the moon because he thinks we can do something for him. How do you know he's not sending us in there as nothing but a distraction? Think about it, Dad. We keep the HK's occupied with slaughtering us while Dallas demolishes the factory."

Frank quickly counter-acted his son's line of reasoning, "No, Shawn, Connor realizes that if we take out Lackland's air power than Skynet will no longer have free reign of the skies from here to Montana. Sending us to the meat grinder won't do anything to rob Skynet of that."

"Plus, Connor is different than Ashdown. He isn't just some military brass that stepped in Ashdown's shoes. He has been there since day one. You were six when we heard his broadcasts for the first time." His father's eyes suddenly softening, a look of distant nostalgia blanketed his expressions. " Since then he has done nothing but give us hope and something to fight for. All Ashdown did was give orders. You know what people say about Connor, son." He finished.

"Don't give me that crap, Dad. I know people like to think he's fucking George Patton and Jesus fucking Christ rolled into one. He may know a shit-ton about Skynet and he may have made a few correct predictions here and there, but that doesn't make him some kind of messiah. Grow up, Dad. There are no saviors here." Shawn retorted, dismissing his father's superstition with a wave of his hand.

Not one to be dissuaded, Shawn's father pressed forward with his beliefs. "Say what you will, son, but it was Connor, not Command, that took out San Francisco. Since then Connor has been taking the fight to Skynet and kicking a lot of ass along the way. He's been bringing units back from the brink and now it's our turn for some of that good grace. If anyone can lead us to victory, it's going to be him." said Frank with a tone of pride.

Shawn shook his head and looked at the wall to his left, his hand absent-mindedly rising to his mouth as his teeth commenced biting his nails; a common tick he displayed when he was anxious. He couldn't believe he was hearing this. It was insane, his father was willingly consigning his troops to certain death and Shawn could not convince him to stop.

Sergeant Madison looked back down to his desk through his glasses as he shuffled his papers. Without looking at his son he stamped the finale on the discussion. "Listen…Corporal," he added to show his seriousness. "This operation is going to happen. Now you can either sit there, bitching and moaning, or you can man up and help me figure out what we need to pull it off." He said sternly, like a good commanding officer would.

"What we need is a fucking miracle." Said Shawn wearily, the reality of this conversation bearing down on him.

His father removed his glasses and leaned on the desk, looking Shawn dead in the eyes with a look of loving sincerity. "Son, cut the crap. I need you on this. Please." he said emphatically.

Shawn turned his head to meet his father's gaze. Looking at him Shawn could see that his father, his leader, was fully committed to this operation. Perhaps the little they had been able to do against Skynet in the last decade or so, coupled with the disaster at Floresville had been enough to drive his father to seek out one major victory. Long shot or not, Shawn could see that his father was going to see this through. He knew he had a duty to his unit but he had a greater duty to his father. While he believed this mission a fool's errand, he knew he wouldn't sit idly by and watch his father take on this task alone. Reluctantly, Shawn leaned forward and faced his father with a look of resignation.

"This is madness, Dad. The chances of us successfully destroying Lackland are worse than zero. We will more than likely die before we even breach the outer perimeter." He said coldly.

"But…I'm not going to let you do this alone. I'll tell you what we need to even have the slightest of chances. You just let the great General John Connor know that if he doesn't follow through with his promises, that Corporal Madison will be making a trip to LA to shove a Texas-sized boot up his Holy ass." He declared with a twinge of malice echoing in his voice.

Frank nodded and smirked at his son's comment. "You really think we don't have a chance?" he asked curiously.

"I'm not expecting to survive and neither should you." Replied Shawn flatly, his face resolute as if it was carved from stone.

"Well…on your feet or on your knees, right son?" said Frank determinedly, reciting the motto that he and his unit had taken up since their inception.

All Shawn could do was smile as he turned and walked out the door, picking up his rifle as he exited. His stomach was filled with dread as he strode back to his quarters. Making his way to his door, he opened it and stepped inside. It was a barren room, naught but a cot and a stack of old books adorned the floor. He leaned his rifle up against the wall and began to strip himself of his gear. He laid his pistol down next to his cot and removed his jacket, tossing it to the corner of the small room. He sat down on his cot and began untying his boot laces.

While he preformed these mundane tasks, his head was spinning. The feeling of deep dread pulled his stomach down to his feet. He couldn't believe he had just agreed to assist his father plan an operation that would surely kill everyone he knew and cared for. He felt dirty, stained by the decision. Supplementing that was unbridled rage. _Pawns on a fucking chessboard_ he thought to himself when memories of his experiences with Resistance command flooded his mind.

He peeled his unlaced boots from his feet, slid his socks off and hung them to dry off the end of his cot. He laid bad, exhaling deeply at the feeling of comfort that washed over him.

His mind was cycling through all the possible scenarios of the coming attack. He could not envision a strategy or weapon that would bring them a victory. Each scenario ended in the massacre of his unit…his family. Perhaps this was to be the inevitable end. Their sector has been nothing if not insignificant on the radar of Resistance command. It was only a matter of time before something happened that allowed Skynet the opportunity to wipe out their little cell. This thought enraged Shawn.

He found himself lying on his cot, desperately wanting to sleep, but his chest heaved with rage as his heart pounded frantically. He was angered by their circumstance. He was angered by Connor's ability to use them as expendable pawns. He was angered by his father's willingness to play along. All of this bubbled and boiled in Shawn's soul.

A fatalistic and determined feeling began to grow in Shawn Madison. Like a miniscule ember it began to burn ever larger and intense.

_Fine by me. If this is to be our eleventh hour, then I will make it a blitz that Skynet will never forget. I'm going to die, good, then I'm going to take every fucking machine I can with me_ he thought to himself.

His eyes grew heavy as they slowly closed, allowing Shawn to drift into darkness with a final thought ripping through his consciousness, a final thought of acceptance and determination.

_On your feet…or on your knees._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**2003 – J-Day plus 70**

Back at the Madison homestead, the house was bustling with activity. Survivors recounted their story of nightmarish destruction as their newfound friends in uniform worked frantically to stabilize a wounded Frank Madison.

The survivors were able to quickly load the truck with as much food and potable water as they could fit, the fear of another Terminator attack fresh on their heels. The sociopathic machine, according to their military saviors, had posted up at that store for weeks. It had prevented any traveling survivors from getting food let alone leaving the immediate area alive. With the destruction of the T1 the survivors were able to find a massive stash of provisions.

While the survivors loaded supplies, the soldiers provided security and tended to the wounded Frank Madison. En route back to the house, the piece of steel from the machine's torso that had lodged itself in his leg prevented initial blood loss, however once he was laid in his own bed and the shrapnel removed, a river of blood flowed from the gash.

Sergeant Regina Ortiz and her fellow U.S. Army counterpart, Specialist Howard Miller, were both certified field medics. The other two were Air Force Airmen. Airman Tyrone Williams and Airman First Class Clyde "Shifty" Horowitz were both members of Air Force Security Forces.

Sergeant Ortiz, her gear left by the door, leaving her in her dirty and stained ACU's worked tirelessly to stem Frank's bleeding. Together with Specialist Miller, they were able to stop the bleeding, clean the wound to stave off infection, and bandage it with what little field aide supplies they had. Sitting at the bedside next to an unconscious and pale Frank Madison, she injected him with morphine and closely monitored his condition, on the lookout for any signs of complications.

Those first few hours back home, Jimbo and Frank's young son Shawn stood motionless in the door way of Frank's bedroom. They watched intently as the two Army medics worked. Shawn sobbed and sniffled relentlessly while Jimbo kept a reassuring hand attached to the young boy's shoulder.

After hours of work, Sergeant Ortiz calmly walked up to Jimbo and the boy, wiping the blood from her hands with a handkerchief. In her ACU's her small frame was greatly accentuated. Her dark brown hair was tied in a tight bun behind her head. Even with the world ended, she still adhered to Army regulations. She had a hard face, but behind it a tender side resided, shown through her round caring eyes. She nodded at Jimbo with a slight rise of her lips forming a makeshift grin. Kneeling down to face the son of this man, she gave him a big smile, slightly bearing teeth. "Your dad is going to be just fine. He just needs to rest. Okay?" she said to the boy in a sympathetic tone.

Shawn could do little but nod and wipe the tears away from his face. He had nary said a word since arriving back to his home.

"Thank you, Sergeant, a thousand times thank you." said Jimbo looking down at Sergeant Ortiz, his grateful face barely visible above his prominent double-chin.

Sergeant Ortiz rose to her feet, looking this robust redneck square in the eyes. Her face was no longer stern, it was soft and caring. Her nature as a preserver of life was showing bright as she placed a hand on Jimbo's meaty arm. "No more of that. You need to get some rest too. Take this one to bed and go home. Your neighbor will be fine. We will watch him and the rest here." she said.

Jimbo nodded and turned around, gently picking Shawn up and walked towards the young boy's bedroom. Sergeant Ortiz looked to Specialist Miller, pacing back to the bedside of Frank. "Miller, what's the status on the zoomies?" she asked. Miller, who was sitting on the other side of the bed measuring Frank's vitals, looked up at his Sergeant and replied "Racked out in the kitchen since we got here." His young, lean face all business as he returned to monitoring his patient. Miller's eyes were beginning to show signs of fatigue, dark circles and heavy bags forming. Sergeant Ortiz checked Frank's bandage, noting that the blood loss was slowing…a good sign. "I've got this, Miller. Go wake up the Chair Force, tell them it's their watch, and then you get some rack time." She said coolly.

"Roger that, Sergeant." replied Miller instantly as he slowly stood up and walked out of the room. The room became still and the only sounds to be heard were the steady breathing of Frank and the thud of Millers boots as he plodded down the stairs.

Sergeant Ortiz looked at her patient. He was pale but as the minutes slowly passed his color seemed to return. His breaths had gone from shallow when they first burst through the front door of his home, her soldiers carrying him amid the chaos of swarming people, to steady draws of air. She was glad she could save him. Her team witnessed the massacre from the other side of the road behind the cover of an old gas station. They watched it play out just like every other one they had been forced to watch. Intervention was unacceptable, too risky. But yesterday was different for Sergeant Ortiz. She had been forced to watch group after group of survivors cut to pieces by that fucking machine, knowing that if she interdicted her team would lose ammo and possibly a man. Her policy was to be no different yesterday.

That was until she saw this man on the bed in front of her, against certain death, pick up a rifle and stand toe-to-toe with the machine. Amazing still, after he fired his last round, he intended to use the rifle as a club. He was a true fighter; he was willing to lose it all to give his people a chance. She could not sit idly by and allow this man and his group to die.

Here she sat, looking at this man. Grateful she could save him, grateful his handsome little boy still had a father. It was a feeling she savored. After weeks of terror, confusion, and survival in the bush she held on desperately to this scrap of humanity she had managed to usurp from the wreckage of the world.

She grabbed a chair that rested by the bedroom door. While grabbing it she could see down the stairs the two Airmen sluggishly donning their gear and walking out the front door to take watch. She set the simple wooden chair next to Frank's bed and plopped down. Resting her elbows on her knees and cupping her face in her hands, she set her comforting gaze to her patient, settling in for a long night.

A few hours later Frank awoke with a raspy cough that sounded as if his throat was grinding asphalt.

Sergeant Ortiz's eyes flew open and her hands instantly went to checking his vitals, ensuring he wasn't having complications.

His cough persisted as his eyes began to flutter open. The room spun around him as he struggled to suppress the hellish cough and figure out where he was. He felt groggy and nauseous and the faint sensation of something touching his wrist. His eyes came into focus slowly. He turned his head to his right and there he saw what he thought to be an angel. She leaned down, bringing her face closer to his, her features coming into focus. Her deep blue eyes enveloped Frank in a sense of comfort amongst his confusion.

"Sir, can you hear me?" he heard her say, though it was slow to piece to together.

Frank tried to speak but all he could get out was another round of throat-shredding coughs. He tediously hefted his hand to his mouth, miming the motion of drinking. To his blurry eyes, the woman was gone in an instant, and returned just as fast with a canteen in her hand. He felt her hand cup the back of his head as she lifted the canteen to his lips. Tilting his head back with her help, he felt the soothing splash of cool water appease his parched throat. He drank greedily, as if he'd never felt water touch his lips.

The woman pulled the canteen away from his lips, in a blur of motion, setting it on the nightstand by the bed. Frank blinked his eyes slowly, causing them to come into focus further.

"Sir, can you hear me?" the woman repeated. Frank slowly nodded in acknowledgement.

"Good. Sir, you've been wounded, you will be fine, but you need to rest easy until your leg heals up. Are you feeling any pain?" he heard the woman ask.

Suddenly the memories of the day before crashed into the forefront of Frank's mind. The horror of the machine's methodical slaughter…the blood…the screams…the fear…his son's cries…then black…

Frank dropped his arms to his side and frantically attempted to push himself up. Pain ripped through his leg, blinding white-hot pain. The influx of agony was enough to drop him back down to the bed. The woman instantly pressed her hands to his chest, pushing him down. In a loud and rocky voice Frank bellowed "Shawn!"

"Sir, I need you to calm down." said the woman calmly.

"Where is my son!" Frank yelled. "He's fine, sir. He's in bed, sleeping, now I need you to calm down." replied the collected voice of the woman. Her hands pressed all of her weight on the frantic man. Frank's strength gave out and he began to sob uncontrollably. He ceased to struggle and Sergeant Ortiz sat back up, feeling overcome with empathy at this man's sudden display of emotion.

In between sobs, Frank was able to say only a few words. "All…those…people…"

"Sssh," cooed Sergeant Ortiz as she ran a hand through Frank's wild hair. "you're safe now, you're in your home. It's all over." She desperately wanted to comfort this man. She could feel the weight of responsibility that his sobs and tears exuded.

He wept for what seemed like an eternity, torturing himself for ever agreeing to go into town…especially for taking his son. Finally he collected himself. His eyes bloodshot and swollen, he looked at his caregiver.

"Who are you?" he asked, the redundant question the only thing he could manage to think of.

"Sergeant Regina Ortiz, U.S. Army 127th Medical Battalion," she said automatically, continuing "we saw your group in distress and came to your aid."

A look of desperation came over Frank. He looked to Sergeant Ortiz and pleaded "What the fuck happened?"

"You came under attack by a Terminator, sir, T1 Battle Tank. We were in the area and responded. We destroyed the machine and you took a piece of shrapnel in the thigh. We brought you back here and stabilized you." replied the Sergeant stoically.

Frank grimaced as the pain that traveled up his thigh into his gut confirmed his wound. Questions swarmed around his mind, he desperately wanted answers. "What the fuck was that thing doing there?" he gasped

"Setting up ambushes. Skynet knows that survivors are going to look for food so it places its machines in those critical areas. You weren't the first. Before your group that T1 had been at it for weeks." she dictated calmly. Talking about this always brought out the soldier in her.

Terminator…T1…Skynet…

"That fucking Connor guy…" Frank uttered with a grimace. Looking at the soldier next to him all she could do was nod and say "Yes sir."

Frank suddenly pieced something together. "You said weeks?" he said to the Sergeant, looking at her with a fierce gaze. She turned her head to the side and pretended to look at his bandage.

"If you knew this was going on you had to be watching it. All those families…you let it happen?" he barked, the exertion of his voice causing further pain to hit him hard. Sergeant Ortiz snapped her head back to face him, her blue eyes fierce "I had no choice, civilian! Skynet has been hunting us since Judgment Day. I've watched my team die one by one since the bombs fell!" she snapped. Frank maintained his posture but he knew he was up against a person of a different caliber than someone like Jimbo. Sergeant Ortiz's eyes were blazing. Her chest heaved as she burned a hole through Frank with her glare. Amid another burst of pain, Frank meekly asked "Why did you help us?"

"I don't know," she quickly retorted, lowering her defenses. "I couldn't watch it anymore…" She leaned forward, covering her face in her hands.

Frank sighed as she looked to the ground. He grit his teeth and forced himself to sit up, pain racking his body as he leaned against the bed's backboard. It felt like someone was repeatedly stabbing his thigh with a red hot poker. He could feel the open wound stretch as he flexed his legs.

She looked up at him, a solitary tear streaming down her cheek. It was then Frank saw in her face that this woman had been through hell. "Thank you…for this," he said as he motioned to his bandaged thigh, "…and for saving my son. I could never repay you for that."

Sergeant Ortiz nodded as she sniffled, another tear escaping her clutch.

"How did you end up out here?" asked Frank, desperately wanting to know more about his new guardian angel. She inhaled deeply, exhaling sharply as she wiped the tears from her cheek.

"We were part of joint task force field exercise, Army and Air Force, out at Camp Stanley. It was a three day op. Members of my battalion along with some infantry met up with Air Force tech teams and security teams. There were men in suits, along with some Air Force brass around three trucks. They introduced themselves as programmers and techs from CRS, Cyber Research Systems. They opened the trucks and out rolled three of those T1's. This was the first time we had seen them. It was an exercise to develop new tactics for integrated use of autonomous weapons systems in tandem with infantry in the field. These were unlike anything we had seen before. We had robots, but nothing like these. We were told they were not remote operated, you give them a mission, and they execute it. Infrared sensors, pinpoint targeting systems, heavily armored chassis, advanced problem solving skills, ability to use deductive reasoning…shit that just went right over our heads." Her eyes were distant as she stared at the doorway, reciting her memory.

"They were there to support us. The first two days were spent assaulting positions, problem solving, defending positions, etc. They were supposed to support us…ha…we ended up supporting them. The last day we were put up against them. An entire battalion's worth of soldiers and airmen against three fucking robots. We gave them a good run for their money…but they thought quicker than us. Those damn things always seemed a step ahead of us. The final day, at 0400 we lost our global positioning systems. Then our communications went down, we had to use radios. Soldiers started noticing their cell phones didn't work." She began to emit a low laugh, "I actually threw mine against a tree…pinche' cell phone I said…"

She paused, her gaze growing ever more distant. "Go on, Sergeant, then what?" insisted Frank.

She turned her head to Frank, her eye brows lowered with intensity flashing in her eyes. "Our field computers lost internet connection. Then they started going haywire. Zoomy techs said it looked like a virus had infected the network. We ceased operations until we could figure out what the hell was going on. We stayed in contact with command with the field radios. They kept telling us that everything was on the fritz, SNAFU. Word coming down the line from command was that there was a nasty virus that had infected…" she threw her hands up, "everything!"

She swallowed hard, looking back to the floor, talking in a much more hushed tone.

"We were all huddled in the motor pool. The T1's were offline, bunched together near their transports. Out of nowhere they came online. We didn't know what the fuck was going on. One of the Tech's from CRS said it must be a malfunction of some kind. He just fucking walked up to one of them and…"

She paused for what seemed like a lifetime. She looked up at Frank again, tears once again breaking free from her grasp.

"We had just finished a live fire exercise so when they opened up…" she trailed off. Frank reached his hand out and grasped hers.

She sniffled and wiped the tears, continuing "we scattered, what was left of us. We double-timed it into the woods, leap-frogging, providing covering fire, moving back. We were dropping like flies. It was all I could do to keep everyone together. You…couldn't stop to treat the wounded…they just kept coming. Finally the woods got thick enough that those damn things couldn't advance anymore. We kept moving until we felt were clear enough from them. All in all there were twenty of us…out of a fucking battalion…"

She slipped her hand out from under Frank's and stood up. She walked over to her gear that was placed next to the door. She knelt down and sifted through her pack. She retrieved a small white package and stood back up. Walking back to the chair next to Frank she continued.

"That's when we saw the flash. Brightest damn thing I've ever seen. We knew what it was. Due south, the boom echoed, and the gust of wind hit. Zoomies knew pretty much right away it was Lackland. These men who had just been engaged by a haywire machine, who saw men drop left and right…just sunk down to their knees. For a good ten minutes we were just…frozen. I took charge. I made everyone put on their PPE and get moving. Knowing the blast was south, we had to head north."

She sat back down, opening the tiny paper parcel, retrieving two pills. Cupping them in her hand she reached for the canteen on the nightstand and handed them both to Frank. "For the pain." she said.

He nodded appreciatively and threw the pills into his mouth, chasing them with a long draw on the canteen. He swallowed as he handed the canteen back to Sergeant Ortiz, forcing a small smile amidst the pain, "Thank you…please go on." he said.

She placed the canteen back on the nightstand and looked back at Frank. He could see that she needed to talk about this, her once tense and professional demeanor all but evaporated. A vulnerable and traumatized woman now took precedence.

"We kept moving, humping mile after mile, day after day. We stopped to take inventory of what ammo and supplies we had. We checked the radios every hour. We thought we were home free but those damn machines found us time and time again. We lost someone almost daily…I have all of their dog tags in my pack. We were just north of Blanco when we saw the first Predator drone. We thought it was a friendly; we actually tried to wave it down."

She paused again and swallowed hard.

"The Hellfire it deployed took out ten of my guys. That's when it came down to Miller, Williams, Shifty, and I. From a battalion, to twenty, to four." she said rhythmically. "We barely made it out of that. We decided to lay low…way low. That's when we got to Johnson City. We made our OP at the gas station across from the store, rationed the food, and continuously checked the radios. We first heard John Connor three days after we arrived. At first we couldn't believe the shit he was saying. It was like something out of a bad Hollywood blockbuster." She smiled and laughed at this, tears welling up in her eyes yet again.

Collecting herself she continued, "We listened to every broadcast he made. Over time it made more sense, he was helping us put the pieces together. Everything he said we had seen. Then that T1 rolled into that store. We watched it for days…" her tone became very dark and monotone. "It never moved, it just sat there, all day every day. At night you could see its red eyes just watching everything. Then the first group of survivors rolled up. It was a pretty large convoy of cars, trucks, SUV's and mini-vans. All of them were families, every single one of them. Some people got out and walked up to the store…and…we'll you know what happened." she managed to stutter before hanging her head.

Frank could feel her heavy heart; the weight was so immense he felt he could be crushed by it.

"Those in the cars tried to bail, but the T1 rolled after them. Those whose cars were disabled ran into the field along the highway…that one machine cut them all down. Miller and Shifty wanted to jump in and take it. I ordered them to stand down. I told them we needed the ammo, that we had lost too many good men already." She began to sob as she placed her hand over her mouth, her eyes shut tight as if to prevent the flood of emotion from escaping.

"I can't believe I actually did that!" she hissed through clenched teeth, tears now flowing freely.

Frank placed his hand over hers and squeezed. "You saved us." he said, trying to reassure her.

She looked at him and half-smiled her eyes starry with tears. "Yeah…badass soldier girl, right? Saving you one minute and crying the next." she exclaimed, obviously embarrassed. "It's ok to admit fear, Sergeant. We've all been giving enough of it to last a lifetime lately." Said Frank, his words hitting Ortiz to the core, somehow he saw right through her façade. She smiled and nodded, allowing the last of her tears to fall before looking back at this man. "So…what's your story, Mr. Madison?" she quipped, happy to turn the attention away from her.

Frank recounted the last two months to Sergeant Ortiz, from the moment the bombs fell to the events of yesterday. He told of his despair, his guilt, his negligence, and then his epiphany. He told her of his divorce, his wife perishing in the blast, the refugees that came to his door, and of the broadcast of John Connor. He told her of how he decided to lead these survivors and give them a home, explaining why he went to that store in the first place.

"Some leader, right?" he added with a sarcastic snort.

"What you did took some major huevos, Mr. Madison." said Sergeant Ortiz. "Please, call me Frank." he insisted.

"Fine, Frank, I thought you were loco when you started swinging that rifle at that machine, muy loco." she said with a snarky smile. "Nah," said Frank, "Just pissed off."

They both laughed quietly at that exchange. A weight had seemed to be lifted in the room. They stared at one another for a time, patient and caregiver, civilian and soldier. Sergeant Ortiz broke the stare, feeling suddenly vulnerable and uncomfortable. Frank looked down quickly, his heart skipping a beat.

"Regina…" he began. Sergeant Ortiz, startled at hearing someone call her by her first name for the first time in almost three months, looked back to Frank quickly.

"What do we do know?" he asked quietly, looking at his wounded leg.

She stood up and slowly walked to the door, she needed some fresh air. Before exiting she turned her head to the side. "I don't know, Frank." she said, pausing for a moment before turning her head back, adding as she walked away, "But we'll find out together."

Frank sat there in the darkness of his room. He prayed to God for the first time since Judgment Day. Thanking him for the soldiers that saved his life, his son's life, and his neighbors. As the painkillers kicked in and an intense drowsiness enveloped him, the last thing he thanked God for, before succumbing to sleep, was sending Regina to him.

He now had a guardian angel in Hell.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**August 2020**

The sound of boots hammering on concrete echoed across the walls of the tunnel. The sound of his ragged breath meshed with the whine of bullets as they sped past his body engulfed his ears. His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. Shawn ran as fast as his feet would carry him. The T-700 was not far behind. The report of its G11 rifle could be heard throughout the entire complex of Camp Thermopylae. It walked in long, methodical strides, the form of its human target never leaving its sight.

Shawn ran through the opening into the hangar, a caseless round from the Terminator's G11 barely missing him as he swerved to his left. He dropped behind the cover of one of the vehicles parked in the hangar. Bringing his rifle to bear, he lined his sights up with the tunnel opening, waiting for his pursuer to walk through.

The form of the Terminator's blackened steel exoskeleton emerged from the tunnel, preceded by the unmistakable sound of metal feet colliding with the concrete. Its lifeless red eyes glowed menacingly bright in the soft glow of the hangar. Shawn aligned his sights with the torso joints of the machine and squeezed the trigger. Bursts of heavy 7.62mm rounds flew from the muzzle, hitting the T-700's torso, causing the machine to tilt off balance, sending its own rounds flying toward the ceiling. Raising his muzzle, Shawn squeezed the trigger again, firing bursts into the chest of the machine. The bullets ricocheted off its steel alloy armor, barely breaking its stride.

Shawn squeezed the trigger of his SGL again only to be met by the trademark click that signaled to him that his magazine was empty. The T-700 pressed forward towards Shawn's position, peppering the car concealing its prey with its heavy caseless rounds.

Panic set in. Shawn was cornered. He looked towards the tunnel that led to the surface and decided to go for broke. He dropped his empty rifle and sprang forward in a dead sprint.

He heard the shot. He felt the round slam into his back. The wind was knocked out of him and his body gave out. He dropped to the concrete mid-stride. He felt no pain at first. He pushed himself over on his back and looked back to his mortal enemy. Then the pain hit. It was the most intense sensation he had ever felt, his mind went blank and his vision blurred.

Blood pounded in his ears as he observed the blurry, black figure of the T-700 approach him. Howling through the pain, Shawn reached down and pulled his Ruger 1911 from his holster. As the machine approached his eyes focused through the agony.

Time slowed down. He could feel the blood pour from the entrance wound in his back and the massive exit wound in his chest. Crimson red blood oozed from his mouth.

The machine now stood over him, its servos whining as its head tilted down to look upon its quarry. Its red eyes glowed death in his direction. Shawn gripped the hilt of his 1911 and slowly brought the pistol to bear on the machine in his shaky hand.

"FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING MACHINE!" he growled as he emptied the Ruger's seven-round magazine into the T-700's skull.

The bullets bounced off harmlessly. The machine reached down with its free hand, gripping Shawn by the throat, it pulled his now exhausted and limp body into the air. His empty pistol dropped to the ground. Shawn grimaced and screamed, unable to summon the strength to fight, blood dripping off of his clothes. The T-700's servos sounded off as it pulled Shawn forward. Looking into the machine's eyes Shawn managed to throw one last slight its way. Scowling at his killer, Shawn spit, coating the machine's face in his blood.

The Terminator computed this human response: Illogical. Directive: Terminate.

The machine squeezed its metal hand. Shawn's neck snapped with a short crack.

"Shawn!"

Shawn lunged forward on his cot. His breath was ragged and his clothes were soaked in a cold sweat. As his senses came to him he could hear a rapid pounding on his door. He ran his hand through his brown unkempt hair while turning himself to the right, sitting on the edge of his humble bed.

"Shawn!" hollered the voice on the other side of his door. "I'm up, Wade!" Shawn yelled back.

He cupped his head in his hands, feeling his sweat-soaked face. _…Just a dream, Shawn._

"It's open, Wade." he said once the knocking ceased.

The young aid-de-camp slowly cracked open the door. The long freckled face of the boy poked through wearily, his green eyes wide. "The Sergeant is asking for you in the comm. Room, Shawn." he squeaked, afraid he angered the target of his assignment.

Shawn hastily nodded mid-yawn, standing up and stretching, shaking the sleep from his bones. "Tell him I'll be right there." he said quietly as he peeled his drenched shirt off. His chest and back was a collection of battle scars. At the age of twenty-three he could recount countless tales of escaping from the clutches of death. His right arm was decorated with a single tattoo: the skull of a Terminator. To him it was an unwavering reminder of his reality and his enemy. Directly under the skull were lines of ink formed into Roman numerals. Each line signified a T-600 or 700 series he was able to bring down. His count was up to five.

He reached under his cot to retrieve a fresh shirt…well, as fresh as could be had these days. He threw it on and immediately pulled his boots to his feet. He laced them up speedily and purposefully exited his quarters.

Walking down the tunnel leading back to the hangar he passed his numerous comrades, yawning once again and wiping the sleep from his eyes. Upon entering the hangar he could see it was rife with activity. Cases of their newfound ammo were now being funneled to the armory for distribution. Seeing this Shawn realized he had slept through yesterday and into the next day, a rare treat indeed.

He crossed the hangar, veered to his right and walked briskly down the tunnel that lead to communications area. This was not so much a room as it was a tunnel with a large and rounded dead end. Inside his father was standing over Fisk, the cell's comm. Officer. Fisk, a stocky black man sat hunched over his equipment, meticulously adjusting knobs and settings with one hand while the other held his headphones in place.

"Sergeant Madison, I've got `em, sir." said Fisk, looking up at Shawn's father. "Go to speaker." ordered Frank.

Fisk flipped a switch and a voice rang clear over the speaker. "Sierra Alpha 8-3-0 this is Tango Charlie 1, do you copy?"

Shawn coughed to announce his arrival, receiving a nod from his father before he looked back to the comm. Station.

Frank picked up the receiver from Fisk's desk, "Tango Charlie 1, this is Sierra Alpha 8-3-0 Sergeant First Class Frank Madison speaking, we copy." he said. "This is John Connor and that's Captain now, Frank." replied the voice of the revered Resistance Leader. Now Captain Madison shot his son a short quizzical look as he digested this news. This was soon replaced by a heavy look of grief as he realized what this promotion meant. Shawn shook his head, knowing what pain was coursing through his father's heart as well as thinking it some cheap gesture in response for willingly volunteering to die for this insane mission they were about to undertake.

"Thank you, General Connor, glad to hear from you, sir." said Frank respectfully. "Likewise, Captain, what's the status of the op?" inquired Connor. "Sir, I've conferred with my XO and we think there's a chance we can pull it off." Frank replied confidently, causing Shawn to scoff. Frank ignored his son's displeasure and turned his attention to his commander. "Hmm, that's promising, how is your son by the way?" asked Connor.

Frank looked at his son, who was standing against the wall, his arms across his chest with a look of pure indignation masking his face. "He's in good health, General, and eager to bust Skynet up down here." Frank said flatly. A laugh could be heard from the speaker, followed by John Connor saying gaily "So he's as skeptical as ever, eh?"

Frank sighed before pressing the receiver down and replying "That's right, sir."

"I'd like to speak with him, Captain." said Connor.

Shawn's face went blank. He'd never been one to shy away from criticizing his commanders, be it Ashdown or Connor, but he had never spoken with either of them. Frank extended the receiver to his son, his face stern. "The General is requesting you, Shawn." he said in very much a paternal tone.

Shawn slowly walked forward and grasped the receiver. After all his tirades he would now have to speak personally with John Connor. Intimidated wasn't quite the word for it. He begrudgingly brought the receiver to his mouth and barely choked out the words "Corporal Madison here, sir."

"That's Sergeant now, son. In the past few weeks that I've been in communication with your father, he has spoken very highly of you. He has said you are an excellent tactician and fighter but he admits you're very critical of command. I want to be the first to tell you, I understand. I'm aware of General Ashdown's failures in keeping your unit supplied and in the fight, I want you to know I won't make the same mistake, Shawn." said Connor.

Shawn was honestly taken aback by John Connor himself calling him by his first name and not just by his rank. For a second his defenses cracked, if only for a second. "With all due respect, sir, General Ashdown's failures and short-sightedness never kept us OUT of the fight." he barked into the radio, fresh supplies of angst filling his gut. His father wore a look of sheer horror at the nerve of his son and XO to talk like that to their General. "Well said, Shawn, you're absolutely right. I'll get down to it then, I want you to tell me what problems you will run into taking Lackland." said General Connor understandingly.

"Shouldn't that be the job of the commanding officer, General?" quipped Shawn. "Negative, you will brief me, Shawn." replied Connor sternly.

Shawn's father threw his arms in the air and paced about the room, furious at his son's in-subordination. "Alright then," said Shawn, throwing military formalities out the window. "Frankly, sir, it's a suicide mission. Lackland is the most heavily fortified facility Skynet has in the entire Southern Sector. As you are well aware, it houses this and the Midwestern Sector's Hunter-Killer squadrons. Skynet designed it to withstand any kind of attack. We have innumerable sentry cannons to worry about, along with possibly two divisions of T1's, 600, and 700 series Terminators, not to mention the HK's themselves. The base is surrounded by a five mile-wide perimeter to protect the wall that surrounds the hangars and airfields. The wall itself is steel-reinforced concrete up to twenty-feet thick. To be honest, sir, we don't have a snowball's chance in Hell of making it past the perimeter defenses." He said bluntly.

He looked to his father. Frank's eyes burned with fury, he couldn't believe his son was pulling this crap with General Connor.

"So what do you need?" asked Connor over the buzz of the radio.

Shawn suppressed his urge to throw a sarcastic quip in the General's face and looked at the problem from a purely analytical position. He breathed in deep, exhaling loudly, purging his skepticism for the time being. He stood straighter, allowing his instincts as a soldier, instincts cultivated by years of merciless combat against Skynet to take over.

"Sir, we need to get past the perimeter turrets. It's not going to be enough just to destroy the ones facing us, Skynet can redirect their fire from anywhere. We have to shut down the perimeter defenses in both the outer ring the airfield walls. We won't have the personnel to spread out to do this and take the facility. The only thing I can see that will neutralize the perimeter cannons is air support." he began. His father looked on him, his expression softening, pleased that his son appeared to be giving ground and being constructive rather than destructive. Little did he know that Shawn was simply accepting the fact that he was already dead.

"The Terminators and HK's, that's simpler. We can make up for our lack of manpower with the right weapons and enough munitions. We need RPG's, AT4's, Stinger SAM missiles, grenades, and another M2 with enough rounds to fight for hours. We need more squad machine guns with enough ammo and we need more rifles, some of my guys are still using hunting rifles." Shawn paused and took a breath, his eyes shut and he allowed himself a second the feel the full weight of aiding in this suicide mission. His ears heard only the static of the radio, waiting for the General to speak.

"Anything else, Sergeant Madison?" responded Connor. Shawn's eyes snapped open, a cold expression coming over his face.

"Yes sir, explosives and lots of it. If we take this facility it needs to be destroyed. We need to blow the radio tower, the hangars, the airfield; everything. "Said Shawn, his shoulders dropping as his hand came to his brow, rubbing the tension from it. The static ceased and Connors voice rang through "Standby, Sergeant."

Shawn looked to his father, showing a look of pure contempt as his hand squeeze the small receiver in his palm. Frank walked over his son and in a hushed voice asked, "Can it work?"

Shawn looked at his father and maintaining a grave monotone replied "If we can get Resistance birds to fly in danger close and we can secure the weapons, we have a chance. We're going to get fucked up regardless…but there's a chance." Frank nodded his head, knowing this was the best response he would get from his son, and laid a heavy hand on Shawn's shoulder.

Minute after agonizing minute passed as static emitted from the speakers. Shawn paced back and forth the comm. Room with heavy steps. He had barely begun to resign himself to death and here he was trying to tell his commander what they needed to make it a difficult massacre for Skynet to pull off. Frank could sense that something had changed in his son. His demeanor was sullen and tense. Ever since revealing to him this mission his son was like a coiled spring. Frank found himself wondering why his son couldn't see the importance of taking that damn facility. Why was he so opposed to doing their job in taking this war to Skynet? What made him so certain of their destruction? Did he have no faith in his commander, John Connor? Did he have no faith in the unit? Did he have no faith in me?

Frank wrestled with these questions as he sat on the desk that housed their communications, regarding his son plodding back and forth across the room.

"Sergeant, come back." Connor's voice pierced the silence. Shawn strode back to the desk and stood next to Fisk, who had been patiently manning his post, where the radio receiver rested. Picking up the receiver he spoke into it calmly "Sir."

Shawn braced himself, he knew an inevitable let down was coming, convinced his unit would be left to their own devices yet again.

"I've conferred with my team and here's what we can do. Air support is a no-go." said Connor with an expressive sigh. And there it was; the let down. Shawn raised the receiver above his head, fighting the urge to throw it across the room, his mouth uttering the word "Bastards" through clenched teeth. Connor continued, "With Skynet's amount of airpower out there any birds I send in wouldn't make it into the city."

Frank shot up from the desk, seeing his son's temper flare, ready to snatch the radio in case he said something stupid.

"In a week's time, we will be sending the weapons and munitions you need via airdrop; I will confer with Captain Madison to work out the DZ and time. Right now I have intelligence working on satellite reconnaissance photos of Lackland to help you plan the strike. Those will be brought in with the airdrop…" said Connor, Shawn's face contorting with rage and disbelief. Frank held out his hands to his son in a gesture that said "calm down."

"…along with a team of my men. They will be assisting you in the execution of the attack. These are some of my best Tech-Com soldiers; they have experience with these kinds of operations. With their help and the supplies you should be able to level that damn place." Connor finished.

Shawn's heart was pounding in his ears, his eyes were clenched shut while his teeth grinded in his mouth. He asked for fighter-bombers and he was getting a few grunts from LA? Did Connor think this was some kind of joke? It was turning into Floresville all over again. He saw his father urging him to keep his cool, in that moment, Shawn hated him.

"Do you copy, Sergeant?" asked Connor.

Shawn leveled a vicious stare at his father. Through a clenched jaw he uttered "Affirmative, sir." He slammed the receiver down on the desk, turning to kick a wooden chair, shattering the frame as he bellowed "That son of a bitch!" Fisk jumped in his seat, looking at Shawn with concern and then to his commanding officer. Frank was stunned into silence; his son was more like a caged beast than the young man he knew and raised. Locking his feral eyes on his father's quizzical expression, Shawn briskly walked back down the tunnel towards the hangar.

He couldn't stand there and listen to any more. He felt betrayed and undervalued, like a pawn to be sacrificed. Most of all he felt justified. He always knew that no matter who commanded this Resistance, San Antonio was doomed to belong to Skynet, and all who lived and fought here exiled to death. _Some fucking savior _Shawn thought as he powered his way through the hangar. He paused for a moment and grabbed a small paper package off the hood of his father's pickup. He continued, walking towards the main tunnel that lead to the surface. He was consumed by his rage. Furious from the dejection he felt from his commander that was supposed to be this messiah, a man that claimed he wouldn't make the same mistakes as the previous command structure. Shawn's thoughts turned to Floresville, his heart immediately pummeled by an intense grief that had never left him.

Shawn arrived at the surface, the late morning sun blanketing his body. He sat up against the wall of the tunnel entrance, just under the camouflage covering that masked their secret entryway. He opened the small paper package in his hand, turning it over and dropped a small butane lighter and a cigarette into his palm. Putting the cigarette into his lips, he lifted the lighter, struck it and lit the tobacco inside the paper. He took a long drag from the cigarette, feeling the hot smoke burn his throat as it traveled down. Shawn had never smoked before. He knew his unit had an underground tobacco crop that they grew hydroponically alongside their fruits and vegetables, but he never had the urge to smoke until today.

He coughed heavily feeling like his lungs were bursting and his throat was collapsing. He hunched over and let the coughing take its course. Once it subsided he sat back against the wall, holding the cigarette up for inspection. "Fuck it, I'm dead anyway, right?" he said to himself as he took another drag.

With each successive inhalation, his lungs accepted the foreign substance forced upon them. Shawn tossed aside his spent cigarette and lit up another. His mind bounded back and forth from dealing with his seething hatred of his commanders and their apparent negligence to his sorrowful memories of Floresville. For a minute his hatred took a back seat as he allowed himself to think back to that horrible event.

It had been their first major operation against Skynet. Two years ago the unit was led by Shawn's father and his wife, Captain Regina Ortiz.

Shawn knew his mother had died on Judgment Day; one of three billion lives taken in Skynet's first strike against humanity. He can't remember when Regina joined them at their home; in fact he could barely remember his mother. She helped raise him. She taught him how to read and write, to use his brain as his primary weapon. Then she taught him weapons and tactics. She formed this cell, equipped it and trained it. She planned the unit's first attacks on the machines; small ambushes and raids designed to disrupt Skynet's daily operations in the city. It was her leadership that attracted the attention of Ashdown and Losenko, causing them to commission this tiny unit as an official Resistance cell. She presented Shawn with his red armband when he was fifteen after he participated in his first ambush.

In 2018, four months before Skynet massacred Command and Connor leveled San Francisco, Regina had been receiving reports of a death camp in Floresville. She had sent Shawn to recon the area to verify or disprove the reports. Shawn by this point had earned his stripes as a Resistance guerilla, and was adept at operating alone and under Skynet's radar. It took him a week to make it to Floresville on foot unnoticed. The camp was not hard to find, all he had to do was follow the smell. What he saw from his concealed position hundreds of yards from the camp mortified him to this day. Through his field binoculars he saw hundreds of emaciated bodies pacing the grounds behind the electrified fencing, some wearing tattered remains of clothing, some not. Men, women and children were huddled together, snatched from the meager lives they lived and condemned to this hell.

The fencing was patrolled inside and out by T-600's and T1's, always vigilant, watching for one its captives to make a break for the fence. Each time they paced back and forth, the frightened prisoners would shrink in dread and huddle together, drawing the lifeless gaze of the machine's red eyes.

Many were loading the gray, bone-thin bodies of other poor souls into columns of automated dump trucks. The mindless vehicles drove one-by-one to a concrete building that was placed at the outer edge of the fence line. It was featureless save for two titan smoke stacks that rose from the roof. Shawn knew what that building was: a facility for the orderly disposal of humans. The smell was the single vilest scent he had ever inhaled. He could still smell it as he remembered it.

Across the perfectly rectangular building sat the massive hulk of one of Skynet's Harvesters. Shawn had only seen this machine one other time and it was avoided at all cost. It sat motionless, no doubt docked with its transport counterpart. Shawn had heard rumors of Skynet using these machines to round up the remains of humanity in California and using them for some research and development projects. This was clearly not the case with Floresville. These people were here to be disposed of in Skynet's logical and calculating manner.

Shawn hid amongst the foliage for hours during the night, covered in a thermal blanket to mask his heat signature from Skynet's ever searching eyes, didn't hurt that it was February either. He gathered all the intel he could, observing the movements and routines of the mechanized guards, looking for the fence's power source. He could see power lines leading from various points on the fence to the southern wall of the hulking grey structure. In his head he was doing what Regina taught him: strategizing. As each moment passed, his hatred for Skynet grew deeper as he witnessed more and more bodies being loaded into the disposal units. He was forced to watch desperate prisoners panic and try scaling the fencing, only to be struck motionless by thousands of volts of electricity, followed by a short burst of 30mm rounds into their bodies from a T-600. The force of the burst was enough to dislodge their burning bodies from the fence, left to smolder in the company of the rest of the prisoners.

He knew that they had to rescue those people and destroy this camp. Years of successful ambushes and raids against Skynet bolstered his confidence that they could do this.

After another week spent trekking through the wreckage and devastation of the city, he made it back to Camp Thermopylae to brief Regina and his father on what he saw. He remembered a fire blazing behind Regina's eyes as he described the horrors endured by the prisoners of the camp. It's a face he had seen many times before; the resolute look of a hardened soldier with a moral imperative to act.

The first thing Regina did was inform Command. Ashdown took the report as Regina described everything Shawn saw. She asked for additional weapons, ammo, and explosives to be dropped to us as soon as possible, knowing this attack could very well drain the unit's precious supplies. She expressed to the commanding General that air support would be needed to engage the Harvester. Ashdown refused, stating a supply drop was too risky for something as trivial as a raid and close air support was absolutely out of the question. "It's not a priority of this Resistance to waste supplies, soldiers and air power on civilian POW's." Shawn remembered him saying.

Shawn had seen Regina mad before, but never like this. She berated the General for being so callous when helpless civilians were being systematically slaughtered. She had barely finished calling him a heartless piece of Pentagon garbage when Ashdown severed communications, obviously not inclined to hear the ramblings of a rag-tag leader from Texas.

Shawn smiled as he drew another long drag from his cigarette, remembering his fierce Latina surrogate mother; her scorn unrivaled by any danger Skynet could conjure.

Shawn asked her what they were going to do without support from Command. He remembered her livid expression turning to him, her brazen determination falling on him like a brick wall. "Fuck them; we'll do it ourselves, like everything else. We will use every last fucking resource we have to get those civilians out of there, roger?"

Shawn gladly agreed.

At the time their unit was comprised of 165 men and women at arms, modestly equipped and ill-supplied as always, but all highly motivated and battle tested. Regina planned the attack meticulously; three teams, alpha, bravo, and charlie. Alpha team would make the main assault, engaging the T-600's and T1's as well as blowing the fence. Bravo team would take out the facility's power supply against the southern wall of the disposal building. Charlie team was given the bulk of the unit's C4 and given the task of destroying the Harvester and transport; Regina not only wanted to demolish the camp, she wanted to ensure Skynet could never again capture humans with impunity.

Three men would stage trucks in the cover of the ruins that comprised downtown San Antonio. They would wait to be radioed in by Regina, signaling the unit's victory and giving them the green-light to drive the trucks to the site to pick up the civilians.

The unit gathered water and ammo, all they would need to make this happen. They set out from Camp Thermopylae and in a week's time they made it within three hundred yards of the camp. The three trucks waited patiently in an old fire station in the city, awaiting their signal.

Regina sent each team about their duties, Her, Shawn, and Frank staying with alpha team. Within an hour of arriving, all teams radioed in that they were in position.

It was Regina who initiated the attack. Shouldering an RPG, she launched its projectile into the torso of a T-600, sending its components flying in all directions. All teams advanced, engaging the Terminators and moving on their objectives. Men and women with hunting rifles, shotguns, and a few military grade weapons quickly hammered Skynet's minions. Bravo team successfully blew the camp's power generator, disarming the fences. With a massive explosion that shook the ground, Charlie team signaled its destruction of the Harvester. Alpha team pressed forward, keeping up a steady stream of lead, knocking their robotic adversaries around and rendering their weapons useless. Years of ambushes like this taught the guerillas where to place their shots on Terminators to cause maximum disruption and damage.

The fighting was over relatively quickly and initial casualty reports showed only minor wounds and one KIA. Shawn could not believe their fortune as they directed the prisoners to stand back as they blew the fences. Hundreds of starving and weary people swarmed Shawn and his comrades, their sunken eyes frozen in the shape of cries, tearless due to dehydration. They wept and hugged their rescuers emphatically as they were carefully directed outside the fencing to await the trucks.

Regina attempted to hail the truck drivers over the radio only to be met by static. Minutes passed as Regina tried time and time again to get the drivers to respond. Shawn, his father, and members of the unit not assigned to picket duties distributed water to the sickly survivors. They counted 293 people rescued, too many to fit on the trucks. The weakest, sick, and injured would travel to Camp Thermopylae on the trucks while the stronger survivors would have to hump it with the unit and brave the dangers of the city. They were completely unaware of what was coming.

Shawn felt a cold chill travel down his spine as he recalled the horror they didn't anticipate that day. A familiar nauseas feeling emerged in the pit of his stomach as his memory replayed the events. He lit yet another cigarette.

A sudden explosion and shuddering of the earth beneath their feet rocked the group. Looking to the south a ball of flame arose from one of the picket positions where fighters were placed to provide protection against a possible Skynet counter-attack. For all their planning, they hadn't taken into the account that the counter-attack might come from the sky.

The HK swooped in from high altitude, its turbo-fans kicking up dirt in mini-cyclones and deafening the people below, causing instant panic amongst the horde of hapless survivors and fighters. The HK leveled its plasma cannon and fired into the mob. Shawn watched in horror as the bodies of his friends and the POW's erupted in blazes of electrically charged flame en masse. With each swivel of its cannon, the mob's numbers were reduced by the tens and twenties.

Regina frantically ordered everyone to pull back, to find cover, to open fire on the HK. It was absolute bedlam. Shawn's father tore him away from the massacre by the collar of his jacket, as Shawn was nearly immobilized by the shock of their sudden turn of fortune. People ran like mad for the cover of the woods as the HK continued its merciless destruction.

Gunfire could be heard from other picket positions. At first it was the popping burst of rifle fire, signaling that the pickets had engaged something. It was abruptly followed and ceased by the steady buzz saw sound of T-600's showering the pickets with mini-gun fire.

Shawn remembered regrouping with his father and Regina at the wood's edge, frantically directing people to them while watching fleeing stragglers, the sick and wounded, picked off by the HK's plasma cannon.

"It was a fucking trap!" Shawn remembered Regina yelling. Shawn believed it instantly. Their assault had been too easily won; a few wounded and one KIA felt too good to be true, and indeed it was. Skynet had allowed them to take the camp, free the prisoners and collect in the open. Skynet tricked them and created its own target of opportunity.

From the remains of the camp the forms of T-600's could be seen pacing forward in a classic firing line. They opened fire into the tree line. Shawn, his father, and Regina instantly turned heel and ran, motivating the survivors of their unit and the prisoners to run and not stop. Shawn remembered the sound of 30mm rounds whizzing past his head and body. He stopped and looked back to see Regina and his father picking up a member of their unit, Kenneth was his name, who took a round in the leg. Shawn ran back to help. He stopped in front of Regina. She looked at him and for the first time in his memory, Shawn could see real fear in her eyes.

The next thing he felt was a warm spray wash across his face. His eyes shut reflexively. He wiped his face and opened his eyes…only to see Regina lying in the dirt, her face carrying a look of wide-eyed shock, and a gaping bloody hole in her lower abdomen. Everything slowed down. His father dropped to his knees, the man they were helping had been shot through the head, half of his skull exposing brain matter that was now covering Frank's shoulder. He scooped his wife in his arms, screaming like a berserker with tears flooding his eyes. Shawn dropped to help his father. Regina was bleeding steadily; her hands desperately clutched her husband's face and clothes. Between screams all Shawn remembers her saying was "I can't fucking believe it." or "We fell for it."

Shawn desperately pleaded with his father to help him carry her to get moving. Shawn knew if they stayed put they would be cut to pieces too. They forced themselves to their feet and took turns carrying Regina's limp body as they ran for safety among the survivors and whizzing bullets.

They managed to outrun the slow-moving T-600's with seventy-five people, seventy-five out of 293 POW's and 165 soldiers. They regrouped in the ruins of a crumbling parking garage. Regina had lost a lot of blood but Specialist Miller, who had fortunately survived the massacre, managed to administer field aide. He stopped the bleeding as best he could, bandaged her, and gave her what little morphine he had to ease the pain. Shawn sat at Regina's side, clutching her hand as she drifted in and out of consciousness, and he watched Miller speak to his father. Miller shook his head and Frank looked away and his shoulders shuddered as he openly wept. They constructed a makeshift stretcher with exposed rebar and jackets and Shawn carried her with his father.

They were twenty-five miles from base when Regina died. They were stopped for the night, traveling in the darkness was too dangerous, HK's hunted better at night. Shawn and his father were at their usual spots at Regina's side, each clutching a hand in theirs. She had been sleeping contently, the morphine allowing her to rest, when her eyes suddenly flew open. She inhaled a deep and ragged breath as her body stiffened, the fingers of her hands Shawn and Frank grasped tightened around theirs. A horrific gasp followed as her body went limp and her lifeless eyes stared into the stars.

No last words, no emotions, no goodbye. The final memory of his surrogate mother was of her horrific last gasp of breath before the internal damage her body took became too much.

Shawn and his father did not sleep that night. They spent the night weeping over the body. The last day of the journey, they carried her body covered in their jackets.

She was buried behind the old house, her gravesite marked by a small smooth stone impaled in the ground, enough to not attract attention. Carved onto its surface was "I Love you, my wife, my savior." etched there by Frank. His father saved her old U.S. Army dog tags and hung them above his cot in his quarters.

Shawn took over daily operations of the camp as his father was overcome by grief, locked in the quarters he had shared with his wife for the last eight years. Walking by you could occasionally here the mournful cries of the now commanding officer.

What was left of the unit took inventory of what remained. Out of the original 165 fighters, only fifty-three remained. Eighteen of the POW's decided to take up arms while the remaining ten left the camp and struck out on their own, afraid that staying with the guerillas would entice more trouble.

Shawn could have cared less. All he felt was sadness and rage. Regina's dried blood had coated his face for days before he washed it off. He cursed Ashdown and Command for not helping them, convinced that if they would have had air support Skynet's trap could have been avoided. He blamed Command for the deaths of those civilians and his comrades.

Four months later Skynet slaughtered Ashdown and the rest of Resistance Command. Shawn felt no pity for them.

Back in the tunnel entrance Shawn stared into the wall, a lit cigarette between his fingers, and a river of tears flowing freely down his cheeks. The wounds of that fateful day never healed and the unit never fully bounced back. Their operational capability was greatly decreased. They lacked personnel and supplies. Shawn's father was a good field commander, he thought well on his feet, but he was no tactician. That responsibility fell to Shawn now, a skill his step-mother passed on to him. He missed her terribly, her death leaving a void that could not be filled.

He took another drag absentmindedly, going over ways to curse Connor and his ridiculous decision, when foot-steps could be heard.

"Those things will kill you, son." said Frank as he casually walked up to where Shawn sat, the sound of his boots connecting with the concrete echoing throughout the tunnel. "I'm sure cancer is the least of my concerns, Dad." Snapped Shawn as his sniffled as quiet as possible, not wanting to draw attention to his display of emotion.

"Talk to me, Shawn." said his father as he dropped to a knee in front of him. Shawn turned his head to hide his teary eyes. "Son, tell me, where is this push-back coming from?" asked Frank, placing his hand on Shawn's knee.

"Dad, they are doing us like they did with Floresville, don't you get it?" snapped Shawn, turning his head to face his father, his brow lowered and his eyes ablaze. "Do you think we can handle another op like that?" he added.

Frank instantly understood. Those memories flooding back to the forefront of his mind. He couldn't blame his son. That was their darkest day, after all. All he could do was push him forward.

Frank looked down nodding his head. "I understand, Shawn. I miss her too. But she wouldn't want us sitting back while we had a job to do. You know just as well as I do, she'd be itching to take this mission. What happened that day could have been prevented, I agree. Command failed us like they failed countless other cells. Connor is different, he's already promised us more than command ever did, and he's done the same for other units worldwide. He's not hanging us out to dry, son." He said calmly and assuredly.

"I ask for air support and he's going to send us three guys from California? You call that not hanging us out to dry?" asked Shawn with a pessimistic chuckle. He flicked the spent cigarette into the grass outside of the entrance and wiped the tears from his face. "We're all going to fucking die." he muttered under his breath.

Frank dismissed his son's cynicism as a fleeting moment of grief. Patting Shawn's knee, Frank stood and looked down at his son as he leaned against the opposite wall. "You'll see, son. Connor will show you that he is different. You will have the same faith in him that I do. I guarantee it." he said confidently.

Shawn sat in silence, his memory still recycling the feeling of his step-mother's blood splashing his face. After a moment he looked at his dad and asked a question that had been nagging him since he spoke with Connor.

"How the fuck is Connor going to airdrop those men and supplies to us anyway?"

His father stood up straight, "That's why I found you," he began, "Connor's men will be here with the supplies on Friday. That gives them a week to make their way from L.A. to Juarez where they will be flown here. The DZ is fifty miles north of base, there's a clearing in the hills that we've designated. In order to give their transport the best chance of making it up here unnoticed, Connor wants us to stage a distraction, keep Skynet focused elsewhere while we sneak those boys in here."

"So let me guess…" said Shawn, shaking his head with a cynical smile.

"I need you to take some men, go into the city and set up an ambush. Give me the time I need to get those supplies back here safely." said Frank.

Shawn turned over the pack and lit a fresh cigarette as a new wave of frustration washed over him.

"They will be over the DZ at 1500 hours. By 1430, you need to be engaging Skynet. Once I radio in letting you know we've made it back here safely, you bug out and get your ass home." finished Frank.

Looking up at his father as he inhaled another drag from his cigarette, Shawn quipped "And why should I risk my ass and our men so these three assholes have a comfortable flight?"

"Because these assholes know things about Skynet that we don't. Because these assholes can help us take that fucking airfield without us marching into the mouth of hell, son." said Frank sternly.

Shawn stood up; placing his cigarette between his lips he faced his dad with a grave and almost emotionless stare.

"Fuck it." he said.

With that he walked back down the tunnel, wisps of smoke trailing him, and the sound of his footsteps echoing his departure.

Frank stared at his son as he strode down the tunnel. His heart ached for Shawn, knowing the toll grief has taken on him. This new mission brought out a cynical and pessimistic side of him that Frank had never seen before. It must have been boiling just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to appear and wreak its havoc. Frank stood there, watching his son disappear into the depths of the tunnel… praying to God that this would work.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**2003 J-Day plus 97**

Frank struggled to his feet from the chair on his front porch. The pain in his leg shot through is body, causing a strained grimace to streak across his face. Almost a month had passed since his encounter with the Terminator in Johnson City; since he caught a piece of the exploded machine in his leg. He had begun to heal under the care of his new tenants. Specifically Sergeant Regina Ortiz, the wayward soldier who had hardly left his bedside during those first few days. He was now able to walk, albeit slowly and carefully.

It was almost November now. The cold, usually bearable in South Texas, now bit through his clothing, augmented by the onset of nuclear winter. He was dressed heavily, blue jeans, two shirts and a heavy winter coat. The afternoon was quickly fading, signaling the end of the group's day. Lights out was just after sunset to avoid detection by any wandering machine. The provisions from the supermarket increased the food supply, but until the soil was readied and crops planted, meals were shortened to two a day; breakfast and lunch. It was strict but sustainable.

He limped slowly to the wooden rail of his porch and leaned his hands against it, looking out into his gravel driveway and front yard. He watched as Regina aided and directed the survivors and Frank's neighbors in constructing a perimeter. He could see Regina standing in the fray handing out directions. The sun seemed to shine only on her, when it was able to pierce the unnatural clouds wrought by the bombs. She wore the look of someone who had been laboring all the day. She wore her military issue boots and pants, and a long john shirt under her jacket lifted from Frank's closet, and her hair in a loose pony-tail. In the regulation bun, one would not know that she had long dark brown hair that almost reached the middle of her back.

Frank stood there in awe of this woman. Since her and her team's arrival, the mood around the homestead changed for the better. Instead of sitting in one of the rooms, moping and sulking, the refugee's had been put to work. Regina imposed a militaristic structure upon the homestead. She convinced Jimbo to bring himself and his castaways to live at Frank's home, consolidating the group. The other neighbors refused, not wanting to give up their property, a desire left over from a world where property mattered. Their refugee's however, took the offer, and Frank's home had grown from a few dozen survivors to over fifty. Regina assigned duties to everyone. Some were charged with tearing up the earth and tilling the soil in preparation of planting seeds for sustainable food. Others were put to work constructing a perimeter around the property; felling trees, making timber, and constructing the fencing while the rest were given regular housekeeping duties.

"Order will keep their moral up." Regina was fond of saying.

Frank watched as his new family erected wooden posts, driving them into the earth, filling the hole and nailing or lashing fencing across. He looked at Regina as she began to hand out water from her canteen to the workers. He could see her giving them encouraging slaps on the back, her mouth moving, uttering words of support and motivation. She was a natural leader.

The figures of her three companions at arms approached, wearing their gear and weapons, patrolling the perimeter of the homestead. They approached her and said something, producing a nod from her. She turned towards Frank and began to walk. She strode briskly as she took a drink from her canteen. Frank's eyes never left her form as she stepped onto the porch. He turned to face her as she walked to him.

Looking down at his leg she asked, "How are you feeling?"

He smiled as a rogue ray of sunshine hit his eyes, "Tired of riding the pine pony, Doc." he said.

"It won't be that much longer so long as you keep off it and rest." She said as she offered her canteen to him. Frank shook his head politely with a smile adding "I'm tired of resting, not while all of this is going on."

She set her canteen on the railing and wiped a stray hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "Oh don't you worry, civilian, as soon as you're not crippled, I'll have you out here working just like everyone else." she quipped jokingly. Frank smirked and faked, rather arduously, a bow. "Your servant, General." he said. Regina laughed heartily. Frank adored the sound. In her presence he was mesmerized.

He knew these feelings; he was falling for her. Quilt creeped into his heart, his grief for Shawn's mother still present. She was the love of his life, even in divorce he vowed never to marry again; the ending of his relationship with Jennifer was heartbreaking for him. Yet here he stood, falling for this woman who had saved his life in the end of all things. He barely knew her or anything about where she came from. But from the moment he first laid eyes on her when he had woken in his bed with the hole in his leg, her face tough and tender like an angel, his breath was taken away. For the last month he had found himself staring at her without thinking about it. He had even dreamed about her. She was strong and absolute, but Frank could tell she kept up a wall, disguising a vulnerability that she had briefly displayed to him that night in his bedroom.

Regina looked at Frank as her laughter subsided. He had a caring look in his eyes, a look that brought a horde of butterflies to her stomach. She looked down to her boots and Frank looked to the yard as an awkward silence enveloped both of them.

Unbeknownst to Frank, there was a reason Regina had slept at his bedside for days as he recovered. There was a reason she was always checking on him and it had little to do with her medical training. Secretly she too had been feeling emotions developing for this man. He had a pure heart, noble intentions, and at that supermarket he had demonstrated true bravery and selflessness. She admired this man and felt a need to attach herself to him and his group. She scorned these feelings that she could not suppress. She tried to tell herself that feelings of attachment were irrelevant in this world. She wanted to be detached and distant, but she couldn't. She wished she could tell him everything; let loose all of her sadness and grief over what she had experienced. She was still a soldier and that came first…for now.

Frank was the first to break the silence. "I don't think I've properly thanked you…Regina." He said as he returned his admiring gaze to her. She looked up at him, meeting his eyes, startled that he had used her name again. After that night at his bedside, her rank once again replaced her name. She liked it; he said it with a sincerity that she hadn't heard since before Judgment Day, she needed that semblance of humanity in her life.

"Don't worry about it, Mr. Madison" she said dismissively, burying her feelings deep down. "Frank, please, we've covered this already" he replied cheerily with an impish smile. Regina allowed a short and faint laugh to escape her stoic reserve.

"Really, Regina, I'm amazed at all of this" he said sincerely. "All of what?" she asked as she propped herself onto the wooden railing. Waving his arm out Frank said "This! You've turned this whole thing around here. These people came here with nothing but the clothes on their back if they were lucky. For months they sat in this house and did nothing but cry and waste away. Now look at them, they're smiling, they're working." Regina placed her hands on her knees and leaned forward, looking at the ground to mask her blushing face.

"We're growing crops, the house is clean, which to be honest is something I've never been good with," he said leaning towards her with a sly grin causing a faint chuckle to emit from her hidden face. "You've turned this into a real community. That's something these people need. With everything that's happened…and with what might be going on out there," he said turning his stare to the south, "these people need a sense of security and hope."

Looking back at her he finished by saying "And it's because of you that they have that. You didn't just save me, Regina…you've saved us all."

She turned her head to Frank and said dryly "You're not going to get me to cry." Frank chuckled as he shifted his stance, temporarily letting some of the weight come off his good leg. "Fair enough" he quipped and she joined him in his laughter.

She looked into the window and saw the reflection of the workers in the distance. Her eyes focused on the figure of the young boy Travers who was hefting a large timber pole up and holding it in place as another man drove nails through into the post. "You know," she began, feeling her control slip. "Before all of this, I was sent to Afghanistan shortly after the Taliban's regime fell." Frank focused all of his attention on her, realizing that she was about to let down her guard.

"Being a woman," she said with a healthy amount of indignation. "I wasn't attached with any infantry, but I was stationed in a forward operating base. It was in the middle of nowhere near the Hindu-Kush. It had a small field hospital. We received the casualties and stabilized them before sending them to Kabul; Day after day I fished bullets and shrapnel out of some mother's son or some wife's husband. I watched young men die in front of me, scared and helpless. I saw what people are capable of doing to each other. At night I would go back to my barracks and cry myself to sleep." She again turned her head to Frank, looking into his concerned eyes.

"I even wished that someone would just take us all out so we couldn't do shit like that to each other. If I had known that that wish would come true…" she said as she shook her head. Frank painfully pushed himself up onto the railing next her, grudgingly bending his injured leg, and rested a hand on her shoulder "Hey now…" he said before she cut him off.

"I know, I know" she said quietly, clasping her hands between her legs. "It was the hardest year of my life. Once I got home I had lost so much faith in humanity. Then all of this shit happened. I let people die at that store, I was no better than those Taliban motherfuckers in Afghanistan."

Frank gently squeezed her shoulder in his palm, feeling some tension releasing as she leaned forward. "The world may have ended but that doesn't mean we can't be human" she said. She sat up and looked at Frank, her eyes showing the redness that precedes tears. "It only took a crazy civilian playing Davey Crockett with a Terminator to show me that" she added with a cocked smile.

Frank's hand involuntarily squeezed her shoulder as he felt his throat swell, her eyes causing his stomach to double over. Awkwardly he stammered "Well...I…uh..."

They were interrupted by Shawn as he bounded out of the front door, swinging it wide open, running to his father.

"Hey buddy!" Frank exclaimed as his gaze was torn away from Regina with his son slamming into his good leg. He wrapped an arm around his son's small figure, holding him. Regina beamed as the little boy appeared.

"Look what I made, dad" the child proclaimed as he held up an invention of Lego blocks built in the shape of a pistol. "What's that, Shawn?" asked Frank asked with mock excitement. "A gun!" said Shawn emphatically. Regina and Frank chuckled in unison at the boy's sincere proclamation. "What's that for?" inquired Frank, playing to his son's enthusiasm. "So I can shoot bad guys," said the boy, his excitement getting ahead of his brain as he began to draw deep breaths in between words. "So…they…um…can't…hurt you!" he finished with a nod of his tiny head.

Frank felt a twinge of guilt. His boy had almost watched him die and the trauma had finally manifested itself in this project of his. He didn't have nightmares, he slept soundly, but here he had decided to build a weapon to protect his father.

Regina recognized Frank's sudden pause and jumped in, "Well aren't you sweet!" she exclaimed. "What a good little soldier" she added with a tussle of his shaggy hair. Shawn grasped his multicolored Lego pistol in his little hands, pointed it toward the house and with a loud shout he mimicked the sounds "BANG BANG!"

Frank snapped to and pulled his son into a deep embrace. "So that's what you've been up in your room doing all day," he said as he released his son. "Good job, son, now why don't you go back inside and practice with it." he said turning Shawn around and gently pushing him towards the door. "Ok, Dad" he said as he shuffled back into the house. Sounds of BANG BANG could be heard through the door and windows. Frank smiled wide watching the figure of his son through the glass, running around the living room and hallways shooting his new invention.

"Your son is adorable" said Regina with an amused snort. Frank nodded, still looking at Shawn. "He's my whole world…" he said distantly.

Regina stared at Frank, noticing his far away expression, knowing what must be going through his mind. A single father living in the post-apocalypse, left to raise his son amid all the dangers and deprivation of this hellish world. She laid a hand on his forearm, sliding her palm up and down. "He'll be fine, kids are resilient and you're lucky, he's a sharp one" she said assuredly. Frank smiled at her words, his stare glued to the window. "I know. I just hate to think about what he has to grow up in. He'll never go to school again. He'll never have another play date. He'll never get his first car, his first job, a first date. He'll never go to college. He's going to grow up in this" he said as he held his arm out to the landscape, finally breaking his stare with the glass, looking at his companion. "I hate to think my son is going to grow up to be some half-witted survivalist" he said with a small scowl.

"He doesn't have to" said Regina. "I'm no teacher; I didn't even get through freshman year at college. I have no idea how to teach him how to read or write or anything" he admitted with a touch of embarrassment. "I'll teach him, then" said Regina confidently.

Frank looked at her with a bemused look, "You can teach?" he asked. "Can I teach? Da loco! Meeho, if I can teach a bunch of Pashtu kids to read and write in English I can teach Shawn" she said proudly, her Latina flare exposing itself. Frank laughed deep at her display and ran a hand through his matted hair. "What's the catch?" he asked in jest. "The catch is you don't pull anymore stupid stunts like you did with that Terminator, I…" she paused for a brief second, catching herself, "We need you around here."

Frank looked at her as her face bloomed red and she looked to her feet. In that moment he knew something was forming between them and it made his heart jump with joy. He smiled at her and extended his hand. "It's a deal" he said in a hushed tone. Regina hid her embarrassment with an awkward smile and took his hand in hers, shaking it softly.

They both quickly turned their heads to the sound of boots on wood as Airman Horowitz appeared on the porch. "Sergeant, it's almost time" he said pointing at his watch. Regina nodded and said "Thanks, Shifty, gather everyone up." Shifty nodded and walked back towards the group constructing the fence.

"Time for what?" asked Frank as she stood up from the railing. "Connor's broadcast, we felt it would be good for everyone to hear them" she said while putting her canteen back in its carrier. "Come on, I'll help you" she added, extending her hand. Frank accepted her hand and she helped him get to his feet. He slowly limped inside his house with Regina at his side. She directed him to the couch, carefully helping him sit without disturbing his wound.

Steadily the residents poured into the house from their duties, all of them immediately going for bottles of water from the kitchen. Travers was the last to walk in the front door, trailing behind the three soldiers who were busy removing their gear and stowing their weapons.

Shawn sprinted towards the three soldiers, Miller specifically. Over the weeks he had taken a liking to Specialist Howard Miller and likewise for the young soldier. Miller dropped down and scooped Shawn up in his arms and throwing him up on his shoulders, sitting him there and holding the young boy's arms out. Shawn squealed gleefully as Miller spun around like a top.

"Everyone, listen up!" said Regina, standing in the middle of the main living room. Shifty walked in with Frank's radio, setting it down on the coffee table and taking up his spot in front of it. "All of you, come into the living room and cop a squat, let's go" she said. Frank smiled softly as he leaned back on the couch. _This would be like watching a Christmas special if she didn't sound like a drill sergeant_ he thought to himself with a light snort.

All of the disheveled tenants slowly congregated in the living room, sitting on the floor or against the wall, wherever they could find room. Even Jimbo traipsed his way from the kitchen in and amongst the throng of people. Noting the radio on the coffee table, Jimbo immediately knew what was up.

"That Connor boy doin' his little pep talk again?" he asked smartly as he sat on the armrest of the loveseat next to Travers. Frank shot him a look that said "not now." Regina looked at him as she walked over to the couch, "That's right, Caballero, problem?" she asked firing a look that seemed to dare him.

Jimbo raised his hands up and shook his head. Regina nodded as he crossed them back across his hefty chest.

Regina sat next to Frank, feeling an almost electric air pass between them. Frank nudged her side and chuckled at her handling of Jimbo. She shot him a sly grin and winked.

Shifty leaned in towards the radio, slowly turning the dial until it came on the frequency he knew to be the one Connor used. He checked his watch as he raised the volume on the radio so everyone could hear. The congregation was all talking amongst one another, creating quite the clamor. "Hey, shut the fuck up, people!" exclaimed Travers, causing the group to all swing their heads in his direction. A quick silence engulfed the room as they looked on in shock; Travers had barely spoken a word in the last few months. He looked back at his companions and raised a finger to his lips.

Shifty looked across the room at Travers with a giddy expression. "Thanks, dude." He said with sly smirk. Travers nodded in response.

Shifty checked his watch again. As if on cue, the static of the radio ceased and a faint shuffling could be heard. "Show time" said Shifty.

The sound of a man clearing his throat echoed throughout the room as everyone looked at the radio enthralled.

"This is John Connor. If you're listening to this, you are the Resistance" the voice began. As if in a trance, almost everyone in the living room leaned forward as if to listen harder.

"It's been ninety-seven days since Judgment Day, since Skynet ended the lives of three billion people. If you can hear this, then you have survived to face a new nightmare: the war against the machines. No doubt you are wondering just what the hell happened. You might have heard that it was terrorists or some rogue nation. I wish that were true. I guess the best place to start would be the beginning."

A deep exhale could be heard. Frank looked at Regina with a stone-cold look on his face.

"In the early 1990's a company known as the Cyberdyne Systems Corporation was developing a revolutionary type of micro-processor. It was called a neural-net processor, a chip that mimicked the function of the human brain; a chip that could learn. It was a huge leap forward in artificial intelligence…I take that back…actual intelligence. In 1993 the Cyberdyne building was destroyed along with the prototype and all research and development of the neural-net processor. Soon afterwards a company under contract and control of the U.S. Air Force called Cyber Research Systems bought out Cyberdyne and acquired all the data that remained on the chip. CRS revived the program and developed the chip. With this technology they developed Skynet, a defense system designed to assume full command and control of the United States military."

Shifty looked at his comrade, Tyrone Williams and mouthed the word "Us?" pointing to the Air Force insignia on his uniform. All Williams could do was shake his head in disgust.

The voice of John Connor continued.

"Skynet wasn't a computer, it was software, programming. Think back to Judgment Day. Nothing worked. Computers, cell phones, TV…it was all on the fritz. What news you could get told us of a computer virus that was sweeping the nation, infecting everything. It even infected the Department of Defense's computer systems. That virus was Skynet. Skynet is a learning system, it learns like we do, only much…much faster. It became self-aware. It saw all humans as a threat to its existence, not just the enemies of the U.S. It decided our fate in a micro-second…extermination."

A long pause was heard along with what had to be the shuffling on the radio receiver on the other side. Frank sat in shock, the answers he so desperately sought being hurled at him all at once. He felt something grip his hand like an iron vice. He looked down and saw that it was Regina's hand, desperately clutching his. He looked at her face and saw turmoil. She was fighting to hold back tears.

"Skynet forced its way into every computer in the world, downloading itself into the military's defense grid, assuming control of our weapons. It even got into your computer. The attack began at Edward's Air Force Base. I was there. The machines came online and slaughtered everyone in that facility. We barely escaped."

_We?_ Thought Frank.

"At 6:18pm pacific time, July 25th 2003, Skynet launched its nuclear warheads… Judgment Day."

Regina's hand clenched Frank's even tighter and she inched closer to him. He could feel her shudder as her shoulder pressed against his.

"We thought we could stop it. We thought we could spare the world…but he was right. He was right, it was inevitable…"

Airman Williams looked at Specialist Miller, who standing right next to him, Shawn still perched atop his broad shoulders. Leaning in he whispered "What the fuck is he going on about?" Miller shrugged and whispered back low enough so the child couldn't hear. "Fuck if I know, man."

Another deep exhale could be heard as Connor's voice went silent.

"If you hear me, you survived. Stay alive, nothing is more important now. Skynet is not something we can live with, co-existence is not an option, and this is not a regime change. It will not settle with being left alone. As we speak it is developing new Terminators to hunt us down. As the years pass they will grow more and more advanced. Now they are on tracks and in the sky. Soon they will walk. Now they are easy to destroy if you have the right weapons. Soon they will not easily be taken down. Now they look like machines, soon they will look like us. They are not killing people because they feel threatened. They will not ignore you. They will find you. They do not stop, they do not rest, and they do not feel pity or remorse or fear. You cannot imagine the lengths Skynet will go to exterminate what's left of the human race."

Frank's mind flashed back to supermarket as he felt his heart beat faster.

"Yes, we face a long and dark road ahead. Too many people will die before we bring Skynet down. But believe me when I say there is still hope. As long as you can breathe there is still hope. The Resistance is forming. Remnants of the world's armies are coming together to take up arms against Skynet. If you can get weapons, get them, and take the fight to Skynet. To fight the machines, anything of a heavy caliber will do. Rifles and shotguns will damage them. The T1's are vulnerable. Much of their hydraulics and servo's are exposed. If you can hit those, you can disable them. If you can hit their optics, you will blind them. They can move quickly, but their movement and the terrain they can enter is limited. The HK's, Hunter-Killers in the air are thinly armored and small; a sustained burst from a rifle at their turbo fans will bring them down. Skynet's factories are barely coming online and the numbers of machines it can deploy are still relatively small. The time to slow it down is now."

All those in the room sat up a little straighter as Connor's tone turned to one of hope and purpose. Frank saw Regina's face grow resolute, a determined scowl blazing across her brow.

"Stay out of the cities, the radiation is too high. They won't be safe to travel in for another ten years, give or take. Stay hidden, get underground if you can. Stay down after dark. HK's and Terminators use infrared and hunt better at night. Keep under Skynet's radar…survive at all cost. Fight Skynet and the Resistance will find you."

The occupants in the room began exchanging looks, each one reading the others as Connor paused.

"If you've heard my broadcasts, I know I sound…like a broken record. I will not stop. I will take to these airwaves as often as I can to remind you that you are the future. I will fight Skynet with you. As long as I have a breath in my body, I promise you we will win. We, the human race, will defeat Skynet as one. Protect one another, stayed unified, and never forget that we will defeat Skynet and smash every last fucking machine it builds."

Shifty threw a short punch into the air, hissing the words "fuck yeah!" out of his mouth. Frank felt Regina's grip on his hand soften as he turned his head to find her looking at him. They looked into each other's eyes for what felt like an eternity.

"This is John Connor. If you're listening to this, you are the Resistance."

The transmission ended abruptly, static and fuzz replacing it. The room sat lucid, the air was tense as each person seemed to all at once exhale.

Shifty switched off the radio and turned his torso to face his Sergeant. "That was his best one, yet, Sergeant" he said.

"The boy can talk, that's for damn sure" injected Jimbo, scratching the stubble that grew across his chins.

"You're damn right it was, Zoomy" said Regina as she snapped her head in Jimbo's direction. She shot up from the couch like she had just experienced a 10,000 volt shock. Looking to the room she said "Alright, lights out everyone, hit the racks."

She clapped her hands and the room emptied in a mass exodus of hushed gossip about what had just been heard. Regina turned to Frank as everyone filed out to their respective sleeping areas. "You too, get your rest, we have busy days coming up and we need you fit" she said pointing at his leg.

"What are you thinking?" he asked as he hefted himself from the couch on his good leg.

"I'm thinking we need to finish that perimeter and we need guns" she said quickly as she helped him walk up the stairs. Frank didn't reply right away, the strain of scaling the stairs sending waves of pain through his body.

Regina helped walk him through the door into his bedroom. Frank stopped and turned to her, absentmindedly placing his hands on her hips. She did not move them; she only stared at him with her own hands on his arms. "Connor stirred something up in you, didn't he?" Frank asked as he looked down into her eyes.

"He did. We're going to make sure this place is defensible and then we are going to go knock on Skynet's front door. It's about time we dealt it a little payback" she said with a voice that made Frank stand taller.

She motioned with her head for Frank to follow her. She helped sit him down on his bed and stood there for a moment looking down at him. He looked right back, a bond had formed that pulled them ever closer. For that moment she dropped her defenses, leaned in and kissed Frank on the forehead before turning, striking a match from the nightstand and lighting the candle that resided there. His head spun and his heart skipped a beat as a slow sigh escaped his mouth. She had begun walking towards his door when he spoke.

"Regina," said Frank, turning his torso to look at her. She turned around, her face obviously blushing even in the candle-light of Frank's room. "I'm with you…no matter what" he declared.

She looked at the man who was quickly stealing her heart and she replied "Hooah."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**September 2020**

Shawn carefully slid another fresh round of 7.62mm into the magazine. He stood in the armory, loading his last magazine, his mind running through strategies for the upcoming ambush. He was surrounded by the boxes of ammo he had retrieved almost four weeks ago. Hung along the walls were rifles, shotguns, pistols, and a few sub-machine guns fitted for repair. Years of accumulated weapons hung in this room, yet the cell seemingly always lacked ammunition to deploy them. It was actually modest compared to other cells across the state.

Shawn always enjoyed standing in this room. Since he was twelve, when Regina and Miller first taught him guns, he had always found himself spending time in the armory. He would sit at a bench and tear down weapons for hours. He would modify, repair, and clean any kind of gun he could get his hands on. In a world without control, he could control whether or not a weapon fired.

He had spent all morning there. He cleaned his weapons down to the last spring. Today there could be no malfunctions. His team had already been through to gather ammunition and load up. He didn't say a word to either of them. In the armory he was silent; his focus was entirely drawn to the weapons. It was his way of not thinking about the briefing or the mission they were about to undertake.

He slid the final round in the magazine and slipped it into his combat vest. All together he was carrying eight magazines for his SGL, four for the Ruger, and for this mission he carried an H&K UMP .45 sub-machine gun with five magazines. He and his team were loaded for a long engagement with Skynet.

He slung his SGL across his chest and walked out of the armory at a brisk pace. He made his way down the tunnel and turned right into another small room. The room was adorned with a large map of San Antonio and the surrounding counties. Circles and markings decorated the map, signifying hot spots, Terminator patrol routes, and Skynet's various staging areas. There sat his team: Travers, Miller, Lopez, and Bones.

Miller was not the young Airman Shawn remembered from childhood. He was significantly older, his hair still cut in accordance with military regulation, now peppered with age. While most Resistance fighters allowed beard growth, Miller continued a strict shaving regimen. He still wore his Army issued uniform, the stitches and patches scattered throughout reflecting years of wear and repair. His issued weapon, a Colt M4, was laid across his lap. He sat straight, his body leaner with years of combat and rationing. His lean and long face bore the wears of age, his high cheek bones protruded more.

He was the unit's senior medical officer. Generally, given his experience, he was confined to the camp these days to accept incoming casualties. However, today, he wanted to be in the thick of it. Shawn wouldn't refuse him; in fact, he welcomed his old mentor's accompaniment.

Travers sat next to Miller, both embodying a stoic stillness that seemed inherently military.

Lopez was a short and skinny guerilla. Only nineteen, he was fresh into the group, a survivor of the Floresville Massacre. That was his first mission, his small frame and quick legs the only thing that carried him to safety. He wore a bandana across his forehead, the eagle of the Mexican flag emblazoned in the middle, while his hair grew wild. While most fighters wore combat clothing, boots, and heavy gear; Lopez wore shorts, no shirt, a light tactical vest, and an old worn pair of converse. He wanted to be light on his feet, figuring if he was going to get shot, Kevlar wouldn't help against a 30mm round. He carried an AK like Shawn, with an H&K USP .45 holstered behind his back.

Sitting next to Lopez, talking up a storm in Spanish, was his twin brother Bones. He was identical to Lopez in every way. Both dressed alike, equipped alike and more importantly; both fought alike.

Shawn chose Travers and Miller because of their experience and reliability. Lopez and Bones begged him to go because they wanted more field experience.

"Alright, cut the chatter, listen up!" Shawn said sternly as he walked into the room. The talking ceased immediately and his team's eyes focused on him. He stood in front of them. Reaching into his vest pocket he retrieved a pack of cigarettes, pulled one and lit up.

"Since when did you start smoking, Sarge?" asked Lopez. "Since when did you get in the habit of interrupting briefings?" snapped Shawn, looking down at the young soldier as he exhaled a cloud of smoke.

Lopez looked to his brother with a confused look. Shawn had indeed grown short with his comrades, everyone knew something wasn't right. Travers shook his head. Shawn constantly wore a blank expression and the air around him was consistently tense. Travers had noticed Shawn spending more time in the armory or topside by himself, brooding all day. He had let a bushy beard begin to grow, masking the strong chin he inherited from his father.

"If there are no more stupid questions, we'll get down to business" he said returning his gaze to the team as a whole.

"Today Connor's men and supplies will be dropping in and it is our job to provide them with a distraction so Skynet doesn't shoot them down before they get a chance to drop. We will be driving into the city and staging the ambush here," he said as he pointed to the map of the city on the wall behind him. His finger rested on the city's northwest, just above a circle. "Where we will keep Skynet occupied until the Captain gives us the signal that he and Connor's boys have made it back to camp."

Shawn's team had been informed on the drop from Command, if only to a certain extent. They probably inferred that something big was coming, though Shawn and his father were playing it close to the chest. It wasn't necessary to inform the unit just yet.

"Right next to a staging area?" asked Miller.

"Seven miles away, it's not the hottest area, but hot enough to keep Skynet concerned" replied Shawn.

"What kind of contact can we expect?" asked Bones, his eyes squinted to focus on the location.

"Mostly 600's, maybe a 700 or two, but if we make enough noise we might draw an HK" said Shawn, taking another drag from his cigarette.

"I hope we aren't aiming for that, Sergeant" said Miller. "No, we're not. If one does show up and our cover doesn't hold, we'll bug out. If that happens, we leap frog, two on two, and engage until given the order to RTB."

"Sounds thin, Jeffe'" said Lopez. "Maybe, but we don't have a choice" said Shawn.

Members of the team each exchanged doubtful looks. Shawn sighed as he exhaled another cloud of smoke. Dropping the cigarette to the floor he ground his boot on it.

"Listen, I chose this spot because it has good cover with minimal open ground. Any tactical retreat we run will be through cover. At most we have to keep the walkers engaged for an hour" Shawn said.

"An hour is long time to go muzzle to muzzle with Terminators" said Travers, directing his steely eyes to Shawn.

Shawn looked at Travers, "If you don't want in, then by all means, leave. Either way, I don't give a shit" he said gravely.

Travers did not break the stare down, his scarred face stood resolute with his Sergeant's. "And let you have all the fun?" he said coolly. Shawn nodded where he usually would have smirked. He turned his attention back to the team.

"Lopez, you and Bones will be hopping from line to line, keeping the Terminators uncoordinated. Travers, you and I will set up a firing line, keeping a steady stream of fire on them. Miller, you will be with us, unless the twins are wounded. If we have to run and gun, Lopez and Bones will be the first to leap while the rest of us provide covering fire, and vice versa until we are clear. Travers, you are on explosives and machine gun. Remember, burst fire, and don't lean on the trigger. If you melt the barrel we are fucked. Only deploy the pipe bombs once we have worn them down with the guns and I've given the order, understood?"

Travers nodded, patting the bag of pipe bombs strapped to his leg. They used up valuable resources, but with the supply drop, it wouldn't be a total loss. The machine gun was the only one the unit had; an M249 heavy machine gun they had retrieved from an old Army armory. For months it sat in the cell's armory in disrepair. Shawn stayed up late the night before getting it operational, replacing trigger springs, adjusting the cyclic rate, cleaning it top to bottom. With the abundant supply of 7.62mm they acquired on the ammo run, it would finally be used. However between the AK's in use in the cell and now the machine gun, they quickly ran dry.

Regardless, Shawn felt better having an operational heavy machine gun as opposed to just rifles and shotguns.

"Once we have them in the area, do not open fire until I do, any questions" asked Shawn as he looked at the faces of his men.

Nothing was said.

"Good, let's go get it done. We have two hours until we need to be engaging Skynet. Let's get to the hangar" he finished.

He stood while his team stood up and filed out of the room. He followed behind them, walking out of the room and down the tunnel into the hangar. They walked through the opening into the expanse, walking towards an old beat up station wagon. The hangar was alive with activity. Every member of the cell was gathered, all checking their gear and weapons. Everyone was to take part in the day's mission of receiving Connor's men and supplies. Indistinct chatter bathed the hangar in clatter.

The car's hood was up as Shawn walked up from behind it. Travers stopped to place the 249 in the trunk space while Miller ran a last check of his field aide supplies and the twins ran through their ammo.

Shawn walked around the driver's side to the hood. The wagon had no windows save for the windshield, the paint was more or less gone, and the body was beat to hell. _Typical _though Shawn. He saw Roscoe leaning over the bumper into the engine, grumbling to himself as his hands delved deep into the vehicle's recesses. Shawn casually kicked the fender, causing Roscoe to jump. The old mechanic shot his head up and snapped in Shawn's direction.

"Now what the fuck?" he exclaimed, the socket wrench in his hand trembling with the startle.

"Get over it," Shawn began dismissively. "Is this rust-bucket going to get us there and back, Roscoe?"

"It damn well better, it only took me two weeks to get it running!" he grumbled, his eyes flaring, magnified through his glasses.

"If it breaks down, I'm breaking your distillery" quipped Shawn as he placed his SGL and UMP on the dashboard. Roscoe slammed the hood shut and growled "I dare you, you little shit"

Shawn let out a short chuckle as he climbed into the car. Roscoe coddled that distillery night and day. His moonshine was as strong as any, more suited to degreasing engines than consumption.

Shawn closed his driver's side door, his team filling in. He placed a baseball cap backwards on his head and turned the keys that were in the ignition. The old wagon struggled to turn over, the engine turning with a screech and the exhaust backfiring. Shawn fed gasoline into the engine, pulsing the accelerator until the car finally began to idle.

Frank Madison jogged towards the car, he himself loaded up for a day in the field, ready to undertake his own mission. He ran up and leaned on the driver's side window.

"Everything ready?" he asked.

Shawn turned his head as he set another cigarette into his lips. "So far, you?" he replied

"Connor's boys and material just took off from Juarez, the clock's running" he said while looking at his wrist watch. "Make sure you're on time, we can't have any fuck ups today" he added.

"I've got it. We will take care of Skynet. You just baby sit Connor's golden boys" Shawn said, doing nothing to hide his contempt.

Frank knew it was futile to talk to his son right now. Shawn's head was wrapped around his mission and his nerves were on edge with the anticipation of combat. It was best to leave the conversation with something simple.

Frank patted the edge of the window opening, nodding at his son and his soldiers. "Go easy, be smart and don't get dead, clear? Get your asses back here as soon as I give the signal" he said, addressing them all but looking directly at Shawn. He laid a reassuring hand on his son's shoulders.

"…Yeah…" said Shawn as he put the wagon in gear. Frank stepped away from the window and Shawn slowly accelerated, steering the car towards the exit tunnel. Frank stood and watched his son drive away. He knew Shawn had done this countless times, he was well experienced and damn good with ambushes. He should have felt nothing but confidence. However, a strong worry surged in his gut. For the first time in years he was concerned for his son's safety. He held his hand up, waving to the wagon, hoping this wouldn't be the last time he saw his son alive.

"Godspeed and give `em hell" he whispered to himself.

As soon as Shawn cleared the camo covering over the tunnel entrance he slammed his foot to the gas pedal. The old wagon roared to life, the exhaust backfiring, and they sped forward as fast as possible down the winding country roads into the city. The mood inside the vehicle was tense, all members feeling the unique anxiety that precedes combat. All senses were alert and eyes darted in every direction. Miller rode shotgun, his rifle held at the ready. Lopez and Bones rode in the back, weapons at the ready and Travers sat in the back with the 249 pointing out the rear window.

The country slowly gave way to the city. Hollowed out shopping centers, abandoned and rusty cars, along with felled street lights and telephone poles replaced trees and fields. Shawn quickly sped the wagon onto the riskiest part of their journey: the highway. Dodging blackened shells of old cars, he could still see the skeletal remains of their occupants. Going into the city always made Shawn uneasy, knowing that at any second an HK could come sweeping down on them. The exposure of the highway made his sense of urgency peak.

The ride was an excruciating hour and a half of silence until Shawn spoke. Looking at his wrist watch as he steered the vehicle he yelled over the wind and engine "Five minutes out!" His watch read 1357, they would be cutting it close.

Shawn veered the wagon to the right, tires screeching as he flew down an exit ramp. He swerved into the parking lot of a once popular mall. Normally they would avoid making that much noise, but today the objective was to grab Skynet's attention. He swiveled the car into an old dock meant for loading the various retail commodities of the past. Shutting off the engine, the five men quickly exited the wagon, gathering up their weapons. Shawn led the way, his SGL's stock firm against his shoulder.

Like most of the buildings in the city, the glass doors had been blown out by the blast wave of Skynet's nuclear warhead seventeen years ago. They all ducked through and entered the decaying shopping mall. Pacing through in the relative darkness, the muzzles of their weapons flew around in all directions. They turned right into the main downstairs portion of the mall. The floors on either side of them had collapsed, the twisted mass of concrete rubble and steel creating a natural choke point. The stores remained slightly visible, small openings remained above the collapsed floors, with a cramped amount of room to move between them. The direction they faced was relatively clear of obstruction, save for a few piles of rubble and remnants of shopping gondolas.

Shawn signaled for the team to halt. They all dropped to a knee and Shawn turned to face them. Whispering he said "This is it, the rubble creates a fatal funnel," motioning his hands down towards the opposite end of the long expanse. "We draw them in from down there and hammer them" he finished.

Looking up Shawn added "The roof will cover us from HK's so long as we stay out of the skylights."

His team nodded as they too assessed their position. Travers noted the building was in the shape of a cross; they were in the north end, the plan being to draw the machines in from the south. "What about our flanks, east and west?" he asked

"Both stores on those sides have collapsed, the machines would have to dig and force their way in to hit us from those directions" said Shawn reassuringly.

Picking up on Travers' point, Miller asked critically "And if they do?"

Frustrated Shawn hung his head for a moment. Picking it back he said sternly "Then we'll deal with it."

Each man knew this was going to be a long engagement and Skynet prided itself on doing the unexpected.

"What about our six?" inquired Lopez. Shawn replied quickly "Travers and I will blow the main entrance we came through. That's Skynet's dinner bell. There is still a service exit that we will use to bug out. Other than that, all we can do is check it."

He continued "Lopez, Bones, you two set up on the right nearest the southern entrance. I need you guys moving, clear room on the right and left sides to run and gun. Fire and relocate, keep them guessing" said Shawn looking at the two Mexican guerillas. They nodded in unison. "Travers, Miller, you two and I will post up facing the southern entrance, as long as we keep up the fire, we will slow their advance." They nodded as well. Looking at the twins Shawn said seriously "Remember guys, accurate shots only. Aim for what will disable and disorient them; don't waste rounds on center mass, clear?"

"Got it, Sarge" replied Bones. "Alright, get to your positions, set up what you have to, and switch on your radios. Let's move" said Shawn as he stood up, placing his radio in his ear, his team following suit.

The team immediately fanned out, moving to their respective locations. The mall would have been dead silent were it not for the sound of concrete being moved and repositioned. Travers and Miller helped Shawn construct cover for their firing line, placing concrete as a barrier high enough for them to kneel behind. The makeshift wall was solid, with corresponding piles of concrete and steel tracing their rear in intervals to provide a safe retreat. Over the radio Lopez and Bones checked in "We're all set down here, Sarge, cover and room to move, getting into position."

"Copy, stand by. We're in position," replied Shawn in a hushed voice, noting Travers setting the 249 up and Miller taking a knee behind the wall. "Time to get their attention." With that Shawn and Travers ran back to the entrance door they walked through. Travers tossed a pipe bomb to Shawn and they quickly set two along the main load-bearing areas of the entrance, duct taping them to the wall. Pulling his butane lighter from his pocket, Shawn lit the first fuse and scrambled quickly to light the second.

He and Travers took off in a dead run back down the entrance hallway. They reached their positions a microsecond before a deafening explosion rocked the structure. The sound of falling concrete and steel followed. Looking back, Shawn could see a dense cloud of dust and smoke barreling out of the entrance way.

To give Skynet a little extra incentive, Shawn placed two fingers in his mouth and breathed hard, a shrill whistle blowing forth. It quickly echoed down the cracked walls of the old mall.

A whistle and explosions were distinctly human sounds. They would quickly be picked up by the acute acoustic sensors on a Terminator or Aerostat. All that was left to do was wait. Shawn checked his watch. Pressing his finger to the button on the side, the small screen lit up green: 1425. Damn close.

Shawn knelt down, pointing the muzzle of his SGL down the pathway. He exhaled quietly in an attempt to calm his rapidly beating heart. He had conducted ambushes like this time and time again, but dealing with the anticipation of a firefight never got any easier. It was still a nerve-shattering experience, even after years of contact with Skynet. He knew Terminators would show, but what they did after that…well, all he could do was adapt.

Silence once again engulfed the aging building. Shawn checked his watch once again; 1431.

"Come on, you motherfuckers, come and get us" he whispered to himself, flexing his hand on the grip of the SGL.

Over the sound of his own breathing, Lopez's voice quietly came through in Shawn's ear. "I've got movement, south door…" Shawn's heart raced even faster. "Confirm, T-600. I repeat, T-600 coming through."

"Hold your fire," said Shawn. "We will engage first, once you can hit its neck and ammo pack, engage. Copy?"

"Copy" whispered Lopez.

Shawn quietly pulled the charging handle on his SGL back, bringing a round from the magazine out and pointed at the chamber. He slowly allowed the spring to push the bolt forward, placing the round in the chamber. He could hear the faint sound of his comrades following suit.

The towering Terminator slowly came into view, its red eyes blazing through the darkness. It walked methodically, the eyes showing that its head was casually scanning the area. Shawn fought to control his breathing, keeping his breaths slow and steady. He slowly placed his finger on the trigger, waiting for the Terminator to close the distance. He aimed down sights, placing the front sight aperture on the torso of the hulking machine.

The T-600 finally lumbered into range, showing that it was sparsely covered in tattered clothing and its trademark rubber skin was in shambles with more than half its metallic skull visible.

_Here we go…_ thought Shawn.

Shawn squeezed the trigger and the SGL roared to life with a burst of fire from its muzzle. The rounds impacted where they were meant to and the T-600's torso flexed backwards. Immediately Travers and Miller opened up. Rounds from Miller's M4 and Travers' 249 slammed into the machine's joint connections and torso.

The machine staggered back, its steady approach abruptly ended. It brought its mini-gun to bear and it screamed to life. The hail of bullets smashed into the concrete covering its attackers. Shawn dropped his head down and screamed into the radio "Lopez, take the shot!"

Lopez took aim and squeezed off a burst. The rounds slammed into the T-600's motor-cortex in the back of its neck, utterly destroying it. Instantly the machine's mini-gun shot upwards, sailing 30mm rounds into the ceiling. Shawn popped back up, recommencing his assault on the machine's torso now that its targeting system was disabled. The machine staggered as if it was walking on gelatin, being fired on from two directions, its mini-gun relentlessly spraying rounds in all directions.

Shawn kneeled behind his cover as he dropped an empty magazine. "Reloading!" he bellowed as he pulled a fresh mag from his vest and slammed it home. Resuming his position, he opened fire on the machine. "Travers, now, blow the son of a bitch!" he yelled over the radio.

Travers set the 249 down and retrieved a pipe bomb from the pack on his leg. "Covering fire!" Shawn yelled over the radio. The team opened up as Travers lit the fuse and sprung forward. He ran to the nearest pile of rubble and lobbed the pipe bomb in the Terminator's direction.

He dropped down quickly as the explosive was set off. In a loud boom and a cloud of smoke the T-600 disappeared and the gun fire ceased. Travers poked his head up as the smoke cleared to see the Terminator scattered across the ground and piles of rubble in pieces. An arm and leg were hopelessly mangled while its torso and head remained largely intact though peppered with shrapnel.

"We've got two more coming through!" said Bones over the radio. Hearing this Travers sprinted to the dismembered machine. He swung his M4 forward from behind his back and pressed the muzzle against the machine's skull. With a quick pull of the trigger he sent a round tunneling into the Terminator's CPU. Its red eyes dimmed and quickly went dark.

Travers picked up the T-600's mini-gun and ammo pack. Hefting it atop his shoulders he immediately ran back to his machine gun position, taking up his place behind the 249.

"Lopez, Bones, relocate now!" ordered Shawn, keeping his sights downrange.

1457 blazed Shawn's watch as the figures of two menacing T-600's emerged from the southern entrance.

Frank Madison knelt silently in the cover of the tree line. The afternoon sun was unforgiving, drenching his brow in sweat. The silence was deafening as his anxiety rose. 1458 told his watch as his eyes peered to the sky. Ahead of him was a clear and level field; the designated DZ for his incoming supplies and guests. He and his men hugged the tree line, waiting for the drop to go down before emerging.

_I can only imagine what Shawn is going through_ he thought to himself as he shiftedwith impatience.

Then the silence was steadily broken with the distant hum of aerial props. Looking to his rear and up through the trees, Frank could make out the distant but unmistakable figure of a C-130 Hercules coming toward them. So far, no sign of any HK's causing Frank to sigh in relief that Shawn was successful in drawing Skynet's gaze. An intense sense of worry consumed him as he realized that right now his son was probably in a desperate firefight.

_Dear God, keep my boy safe_ He prayed silently.

The C-130 rapidly approached and descended. Just as it popped out ahead of the tree line Frank could see boxes dropping and parachutes deploying followed by the almost minute figures of four people.

1500, right on time noted Frank as he looked to his watch.

The figures in the sky opened their parachutes and slowly dropped towards the DZ. The C-130 banked hard and flew back in the direction it came.

Looking up to the disappearing bird he said to himself _Godspeed and Adios, flyboys _wishing the pilots a safe trip back to Juarez.

Frank motioned for his team to move forward. He crouched low and scuttled his way out from the tree line and into the field. His men quickly formed a perimeter as the numerous boxes hit the earth. Frank dropped to a knee once again and brought his Ruger SR556 to bear, scanning the area. He knew full well that moments like these were when Skynet preferred to attack, if it was going to attack at all.

He stood back up and turned as he heard the sound of the four figures landing on the ground. The one nearest him was a young man about Shawn's height but much leaner. Like his compatriots he wore black BDU's with an M4 slung across his chest. The young soldier quickly worked to retrieve his parachute as did his comrades. Very quickly the squad of soldiers formed up around the young man. There was a rather large black man with a close-trimmed beard, a lighter-skinned black man with a bald head covered in tribal tattoos, and an older Asian woman dwarfed by her companions.

The biggest man was the first to approach Frank and extend his hand. "Lieutenant Barnes, 1st Tech-Com" he said while grasping Frank's hand in a crushing grip. "Captain Frank Madison…only San Antonio" replied Frank awkwardly.

Barnes nodded and turned to his companions. Beginning by pointing to the tattooed man he said "This is Sergeant Perry, Private First Class Kyle Reese, and our tech Dr. Cho."

All three nodded save for Kyle Reese who casually waved. Frank looked on him and knew he couldn't have even been Shawn's age. Frank acknowledged each of them and looked again to Barnes. "Lieutenant, I'd love to sit and jaw-jack, but we need to move" he said eyeing the sky.

Barnes nodded in agreement and Frank instantly set his team to the task of gathering the boxes of supplies. All in all ten massive shipping crates littered the field. Each crate took four men to move from the field into the tree line where the trucks waited. Though guests they were, Barnes and his squad wasted no time in lending a hand.

After twenty tense minutes the cargo and personnel were in the trucks and moving out with all haste.

Barnes and his squad rode with Frank in his old blue Chevy. Rocking along in the seat next to Frank, Barnes asked "Who's providing the distraction in town?" "My son, Shawn, he's probably ass-deep in Terminators by now" replied Frank tensely as his eyes remained locked to the road visible through the slit in the steel windshield.

"What's our ETA?" Barnes asked.

Looking at his watch, Frank replied "Another ten minutes or so."

"Call your boy back, we'll be fine" said Barnes calmly.

The deafening sound of gunfire traveled throughout the immediate area surrounding the mall.

Inside Shawn Madison was covering Miller and Travers as they retreated to the second stage of cover. The remains of four T-600's scattered the fatal funnel they had created. Mechanical arms and legs lay mangled in the craters created by pipe bombs.

On the flanks Lopez and his brother Bones continuously peppered the incoming machine with rifle fire, carefully to take close aim at the machine's vulnerabilities.

Travers and Miller made it to their cover as Shawn's final magazine for his SGL ran dry. "Travers, Miller, covering fire!" bellowed Shawn as he dropped the empty mag and slipping it back into his vest before swinging his UMP .45 sub-machine gun forward.

Travers and Miller opened up on their latest target; a blackened T-700 that was quickly gaining ground on the fighters. Shawn sprinted for the concealment of the concrete rubble, caseless rounds from T-700's G11 rifle whizzing past him. Images from his nightmare from weeks past flooded his mind.

He dropped down behind the cover and brought the machine gun to bear, squeezing of bursts of .45ACP at their quarry. The rounds of his machine gun, Travers' and Millers M4 bounced off the machine's exoskeleton. The T-700 had updated alloys, making it that much more impervious to bullets than its predecessors.

"Lopez, come in, sit rep!" Shawn shouted into the radio while shell casings flew from his UMP's breech.

"Moving now, engaging target, ammo low!" Lopez screamed back amid the gunfire.

Shawn could see the forms of the young fighters moving deftly and quickly through the rubble to another position. "Hold!" Shawn bellowed to Miller and Travers. Their fire ceased as the two brothers scaled the rubble and ran across the clearing and into the opposite mountain of concrete like lightning. Seeing they were clear Shawn ordered "Fire!" and the melee resumed.

They could retreat no further; they had been pushed back to their brink.

Amidst the racket of gunfire, Shawn heard a voice pierce his ear from the radio. "Hyde, this is Jekyll, RTB now."

Frank did not need to tell his son twice. "Copy!" he boomed into the radio.

"Pull back, now, pull back!" shouted the embattled leader.

He could see Lopez and Bones begin to run down the backside of the rubble towards them when a lumbering crash joined the clamor. Shawn's head snapped to his left, where the sound had originated and what he saw chilled him to the bone.

The figures of two T-700's came crashing through the wall of collapsed concrete and steel, their red eyes flashing through the smoke. "Miller, shift fire left, contact nine o'clock!" screamed Shawn as he swung his UMP to the new threat.

Miller ran to Shawn's side, taking cover next to him, and engaged the new Terminators. Their combined fire did little to slow the machines advance.

"Travers, cover Lopez and Bones!" ordered Shawn as he dumped an empty mag and slammed a fresh one into the sub machine gun.

The report of Travers' M4 was heard in response as Shawn withdrew behind the concrete to avoid the T-700's incoming rounds.

"Fuck, I'm hit!" was heard over the radios followed by a blood-curdling scream. Shawn knew one of the brother's had been shot. "It's Ricardo, he's down, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!" screamed Bones over the radio as he fired madly at the lone T-700 in the funnel.

"Travers, pipe bomb!" Shawn screamed as he turned towards his compatriot. Travers retrieved the final pipe bomb from his satchel and tossed it to his Sergeant. "All of you get the fuck out of here and to the car, I'll cover you and grab Lopez, go now!" yelled Shawn, pushing Miller back towards the exit.

All of them ran for the exit, Shawn stepping back casually as he maintained a steady stream of fire to cover his comrades. He looked to see that they were out of the service door and clear of fire. He ran to the right side of rubble to find Lopez lying on the ground, his abdomen split open. Shawn ignored the sight of the boy's guts visible through his wound and knelt down beside him, lighting the fuse on the pipe bomb.

By now the three Terminators converged and were steady plodding towards Shawn and his wounded soldier, firing their G11's steadily and methodically.

They registered the sight of the pipe bomb sailing through the air and landing at their feet. All three machines looked down as the explosive landed, the fuse burning into the casing.

The explosion sent concrete and tile flooring flying through the air along with the blackened steel battle chassis of the pursuing Terminators.

Shawn could hear their bodies impact the ground as he grabbed Lopez by the shirt and lifted him up on his shoulders. He ran towards the exit as quickly as his legs would allow. He knew he had precious few seconds before the Terminators were back on their feet and shooting.

His breath rapidly grew ragged as the weight of the wounded soldier on his back bore down on him. Shawn could feel the warm blooding soaking his shoulders and flowing down his collar and back.

He pressed forward, reaching the service door and kicking it open. He summoned all of his strength and sprinted down the dark hallway that lead to the outside world. His heart pulsed in his ears as each moment brought the fear of the machines biting at his heels.

His outstretched foot slammed into the door, flinging it open and bathing him in sunlight. To his left was the station wagon. Miller and Bones were inside while Travers held the mini-gun he absconded from the felled T-600 towards the sky.

"Shawn, hurry!" yelled Miller, frantically motioning for him to run faster.

Shawn reached the car and carefully slid Lopez's limp body into the backseat with Miller.

"HK!" screamed Travers. Shawn's head pivoted in a flash and sure enough the massive form of a Hunter-Killer appeared over the top of the mall.

Travers opened up with the mini-gun. Even when fired by one of them, the buzz-saw report of that chain gun sent chills down Shawn's spine.

The depleted uranium rounds smashed into the HK's hull, causing it to rapidly veer off course. Travers used all of his might to keep the mini-gun on target, hammering the HK with round after round. Smoke began to rise from the machine's fuselage and finally the stream of fire from the mini-gun shredded one of the massive turbo-fans holding the HK aloft. With a deafening explosion the HK careened down into the mall, erupting in a towering ball of flame.

Shawn scurried into the driver's seat, starting the old station wagon up. "Travers, get your ass in here, now!" he screamed. Travers dropped the empty mini-gun and bolted into the back window of the wagon.

Shawn's foot slammed on the accelerator, sending the old car's tires squealing and smoking until the vehicle shot forward. Shawn sped from the parking lot onto the surface roads, turning right and left over and over, barreling down road after road.

He stole a quick look into the backseat where Miller was hurriedly working to stabilize their wounded comrade. Lopez was barely conscious, visible through occasional grimaces and groans of pain. The backseat along with Miller's forearms were saturated with blood.

"How's he doing, Miller?" he asked while yanking the steering wheel to the left.

"He'll be ok as long as we get him back to camp" replied Miller without taking his eyes of the task at hand.

"Don't let my brother die, man, not like this, man…" said Bones, choking on his own words.

"He's not going to die, Bones, I'm not going to let him die, do you hear me?" implored Shawn, trying to keep his friend calm.

Bones pounded his fists into the dashboard, screaming as tears began to run down his cheeks.

Shawn pushed the old wagon to its limits, zipping down the roads he knew would lead to the safety of the country side. His mind went to the prospect of meeting Connor's "help."

_If Lopez dies in this car, I'm going to kill those motherfuckers myself_ he told himself.

Back at Camp Thermopylae Frank waited anxiously in the hangar for his son's return. The only transmission he received after ordering their return was a terse and loud "Copy!" He sat atop the hood of his truck, facing the tunnel entrance that they would no doubt come screaming down. Each moment brought his anxiety to new heights.

Lieutenant Barnes walked up to Frank. "Anything?" he asked. "Nothing yet, should be any minute now" replied Frank, breaking his gaze on the tunnel for only a second to look at Barnes.

Barnes leaned against the truck on his arms, deftly changing the subject to ease Frank's nerves. "All the supplies are sorted and stored. We brought you guys enough rifles, machine guns, ammo and explosives to keep Skynet busy for the next decade. Plus, we brought along a few extra toys that might help us."

"That's good to hear Lieutenant, God knows we needed the ammo and explosives" said Frank with a grateful smile. Barnes nodded with a sly smirk. Frank could easily tell that the prospect of tangling with Skynet was something Barnes not only accepted, but more so, enjoyed.

"Whenever you're ready I'll give you and your son a full briefing from Connor" he said he stood straight.

Quickly getting Frank's attention, his face growing long instantly, the sound of screeching tires echoed through the tunnel. He jumped off the truck and his fists clenched with anxiety.

The old station wagon flew out of the tunnel and slid into the hangar with a screeching stop. Shawn flew out of the driver's side door, covered in the crimson stain of blood, and pulled open the rear door. "Prep the ER, we need a stretcher NOW!" he boomed.

"What happened?" asked Frank as he came running to his son's side, Barnes quickly in tow. His mood went instantly from elation to dread.

"Lopez got hit, he'll live but Miller needs to get him to the operating table" he said to his father as he helped Miller carry Lopez out from the backseat.

Two soldiers ran up to the car carrying a stretcher. Carefully Shawn and Miller laid Lopez down. The stretcher-bearers and Miller shot across the hangar towards the infirmary leaving Shawn standing there with his father and the newcomer.

Bones slid out of the car, dropped his rifle to the ground and tiredly walked after Miller and his wounded brother. Travers opened the back door of the wagon and hung his feet off the edge, exhaling deeply; relieved he was out of danger.

Shawn wiped his bloody hands on his pants, his eyes staring through the newcomer before him.

Barnes extended his hand, introducing himself "Lieutenant Barnes, 1st Tech-Com."

Shawn looked at Barnes' hand and held up his own covered in the blood of his friend. His anger quickly boiled over. "Have a nice fucking flight?" he asked vilely.

"Shawn!" exclaimed Frank through clenched teeth.

Barnes held up his extended hand, "It's ok Captain, I understand" he said calmly, his stare-down with Shawn unbroken. "I'm sorry about your friend, Sergeant" he said compassionately.

"Are you? I'll have you know he volunteered for this mission. You and your little fucking friends damn well better be worth the price he paid to get your asses here in one piece" replied Shawn, stepping towards Barnes, his eyes blazing with rage.

Barnes did not back down and did not say a word. He kept his eyes locked on Shawn's. Frank felt completely helpless, feeling the situation was slowly slipping out of his control.

"If you'll excuse me, I have to go wash this shit off." He said holding his hands up in front of Barnes. He shot one last look at his disbelieving father and walked away, breaking his stride only to collect his weapons before leaving the hangar.

"I apologize, Lieutenant. My son is going through some…some heavy shit right now" said Frank. Barnes turned his head to Frank and waved it off. "Don't worry about it, Captain. It's nothing I haven't seen before" he said reassuringly.

Frank nodded and clapped Barnes on the shoulder. He was going to like this man, he knew it already. He walked over to where Travers sat and asked "What the hell happened?"

"The usual" replied Travers, clearing all of his weapons stowed in the back space of the wagon next to him. "Nailed four walkers though, scrap metal" he said calmly.

Frank ran a hand through his long goatee and nodded his head. "Good job," he began as he exhaled. "Now get some chow and some rack time. That's an order." Travers stood up and slowly brought a salute up to his brow before walking away towards the mess hall.

"I think some time in the rack is in order for all of us. Tomorrow we get down to business" added Barnes. Frank looked back to his newfound comrade.

"I couldn't agree more, Lieutenant" he said.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**December 2003**

Frank sat on his porch looking out into the perimeter fencing. It was Christmas and the sounds of the residents inside filled his ears. Frank allowed a warm smile to form.

_Never thought I'd be so happy to hear Christmas carols_ he thought.

He wanted to join in but for the time being he waited. Regina and her team were outside the wire. She didn't say much before she left, just that her and the team had to take care of something. She gave him a kiss, a warm and lasting hug, and another, more passionate kiss before leaving him. That was three days ago.

In the months since Connor's broadcast that sent an unrivaled surge of hope through the homestead, Regina and Frank grew closer and closer. They spent time alone, just staring at one another, laughing and holding each other. Frank never thought he would experience this again; love. His throat dried up each time he looked into her deep blue eyes. His head would spin when she embraced him. She was so strong in front of the residents and her men, but with Frank, she was vulnerable and passionate.

They finally shared his bed the night before. It was a night of passion and desire for the two of them. Laying there as the sounds of the wind battered the house, bundled up in his arms, Regina spoke the words she had been aching to say for weeks: "I love you, Frank."

He hated Skynet for what it brought to the world, but thanked it for what it brought to him.

A deep chill ran down Frank's spine. The cold was all-penetrating; unnatural for South Texas. He sat on the porch bench, covered in three layers of clothing. The evening air was crisp and the wind was steady. His leg began to throb. The wound was healing nicely; the amount of packing gauze growing less and less as the weeks progressed. He still walked with a gimp but at least it was under his own power. The cold did nothing for the pain. The colder it was, the sorer the wound became. A hefty flurry of snow began to fall, blanketing the frozen ground in a thin layer of white.

_Snow in Texas…I'll be damned…_

Frank lifted the mug in his hand to his lips and drank down a large gulp of warm coffee. It was flavored with the last remains of the home's sugar and cinnamon; a treat for the holidays.

His anxiety was rising, each moment that passed where he didn't see his newfound love driving through the fencing was a moment of pure torment. He desperately wanted to go with her. He felt useless in his present state.

What's more was Shawn was missing her and Miller terribly. Before they left Miller would spend his free time away from patrols and work duties playing with the boy. Shawn would chase Miller with his new Lego pistol, screaming "BANG BANG" and Miller dodged the imaginary bullets until he was finally felled by the boy's uncanny accuracy. This outcome always caused Shawn to jump with the joy of victory.

Regina took her promise to Frank very seriously. She regimented four hours each day to sit with Shawn and teach him how to read and write. After only two and a half months Shawn was writing his full name and his father's. He was beginning to read full sentences, count to one hundred, add, and subtract.

"He's such a sharp boy" Regina was fond of saying after each lesson.

Frank was infinitely proud of his son's progress, relieved that the child wouldn't be relegated to the intellect of a half-mad survivalist. His son would need more than just skill with a weapon to survive this new world.

Frank's attention was suddenly snapped to from the thoughts of his mind. The low hum of his truck's engine could be heard in the distance. He wretched himself to his feet grimacing through the discomfort, limping to the rail he grasped the wood in a vice grip. Soon lights could be seen coating the fence line in their glow. The truck quickly sped around the corner, turning into the main driveway.

Frank's heart leapt with elation, a wide grin flashing as the pickup approached. Shifty and Williams were in the bed, their rifles pivoting in all directions. The truck came to a halt next to the porch and the two Airmen in the back hopped out. Regina and Miller exited the front cabin, Regina beaming at Frank.

"Merry Christmas!" she exclaimed as she quickly strode up the porch steps, wrapping her arms around her lover, kissing him on the cheek. She looked exhausted and dirty but Frank could have cared less. He blocked out all around him and took her in his arms.

"I'm so glad you're back" Frank whispered into her ear as he clutched her tightly. "Me too" she replied, relishing the moment.

They separated as the remaining soldiers came up the steps. "Where did you go?" Frank asked, looking at the tired specimens. Regina looked up at him as she led him to the truck, "Foraging" she said.

Looking in the backseat and bed of the truck Frank could see boxes of all shapes and sizes, most with military markings. "We went back to Camp Stanley and Camp Bullis. We gathered some rifles and ammo, not much, only five rifles were operational" said Regina proudly, adding "Skynet didn't want anything left behind for survivors to use."

Frank was stunned. He couldn't believe she had done this; he was astounded, proud, elated, and angry all at once. "Now I see why you didn't tell me what you were doing" he said to her with a serious gaze. She shrugged her shoulders and smirked, "Of course, I knew you would throw a shit-fit" she chuckled, opening the passenger door.

He didn't know whether to chide her or kiss her.

_Now I KNOW I'm in love_ he thought to himself.

"Now we can start training some of these people, get them ready to fight" she said while she and her men started pulling boxes from the truck. Frank couldn't argue there, she had been consumed by the idea of fighting back against Skynet ever since Connor's broadcast, Frank as well. She had touched on the idea of going back to those military installations and gathering what they could, but he figured she would wait until he was healed.

"Run into any trouble?" Frank asked as he leaned in to help, grabbing a box labeled "Ammo."

She handed a long box to Shifty, "Not at the camps, we did run into a T1 in Boerne, but we laid low and it didn't spot us" she said.

Frank limped up the stairs with the ammo box in his hands, setting it down at the door. "What were you doing in Boerne?" he asked curiously. "We found so few rifles at the camps that I decided it would be worth checking the sporting goods stores in town. It paid off, we found a few civilian AR's and some large-bore hunting rifles" she said, clearly proud of herself.

"Any survivors?" Frank asked with concern. Regina paused, placing a hand on her hip while the other pulled locks of hair from her face. With a sigh she answered "Yes, not many, but yes. We told them who we were, where to find us if they wanted shelter and a chance to fight Skynet."

"How did they take that?" asked Frank as he carefully walked back down the porch steps to grab another ammo box. "Most of them thought I was crazy, they don't even know the T1 is there," she paused as she reached into the truck after Frank to grab a box. "But they will soon enough" she finished in a grave tone.

"Let's hope not too soon, right?" said Frank, resting his hand on the back of her neck; her sweet spot. Regina's mood shifted back to excitement as she handed the last box of ammo to Williams. "Before I forget, I managed to grab Shawn a Christmas present!" she beamed, an almost child-like excitement flaring on her face. She reached into the back set and pulled out a box. Inside was a toy airsoft rifle made to look like an M4. In her other hand she had a mega-sized container of pellets for it. Frank grinned big, touched by her gesture. "Do you think he'll like it?" she asked. Frank leaned in and gave her a long and loving kiss. "He'll go nuts!" he exclaimed. His hands rested on her hips as she set the box and container back in the truck. "You're amazing, you know that?" Frank added, looking deep into her eyes.

"Mi amore, I know!" she said with a laugh. Frank's knees almost buckled. He loved it when she said told him she loved him, but when she said it in Spanish…

"Get a room, Sergeant" said Shifty sarcastically as he walked by carrying three boxes atop the other. Regina stuck her tongue out as he walked past, causing Frank to laugh. He looked at the boxes Shifty carried, bigger than the others, and asked "What's in those?"

"Books for Shawn; textbooks, the classics, history, math, science, anything I could get. We hit up the public library in Boerne. Better to use them for learning than tinder, I figured" Regina answered.

Frank was still awash in disbelief. "How did I get so lucky, huh Sergeant?" he asked, looking down on his new love with a sneaky grin. "Oh, I just have a thing for crazy hillbillies that get wounded by robots" Regina answered with a grin. They both laughed and kissed, embracing each other in the cold and snow of the post-apocalyptic world.

"Let's go inside" said Frank. Regina nodded as they broke their hold, she grabbed Shawn's present and slowly helped Frank up the porch steps. Frank held the door open as Regina stepped through and he then followed.

Inside the house was warm and filled with the sounds of carols and chatter. It was softly lit with the glow of numerous candles, bathing the house in a multitude of aromas. Miller, Shifty, and Williams were finishing moving all their new supplies into the back room of the house. The living room was buzzing with residents, all gathered around their crudely decorated tanenbaum. It was really a cedar tree they had cut down and covered with homemade ornaments. They drank coffee and sang carols, smiles lit up every face. They wanted to light a fire in the fireplace but Frank strictly forbade it; a plume of smoke would certainly attract unwanted attention. They were already accepting a calculated risk being awake after nightfall.

Travers sat on the stairs with a group of teenagers while they talked of Christmases past, the occasional smile disrupting his usual reserve.

In the kitchen Jimbo was preparing dinner: fresh deer steaks. Frank and Regina walked through the kitchen, the aroma of fresh meat blanketing their senses. "Mmm, smells good, Jimbo" remarked Frank as he walked by. "Bagged it myself this morning, it'll be a nice change of pace from baked beans" Jimbo quipped. Frank couldn't have agreed more.

The couple walked into the back room that served as Frank's hobby shop before the war, where Miller, Shifty, and Williams sat opening their spoils atop Frank's old work bench.

"What's the word, boys?" asked Regina, standing behind the men. "Everything's kosher here, Sergeant" replied Williams as he pulled one of the hunting rifles from the store from its box. He pulled back the bolt, examining the chamber.

Regina motioned Frank over to stand next to her. She reached over and pulled a rifle from the bench. She handed it to Frank, which he grabbed by the fore end, cradling it in his arms. "Sig 556 Tactical Carbine. It fires 5.56NATO rounds, semi-automatic, gas-piston driven, and the mags have a thirty-round capacity" remarked Williams as he looked back at Frank's stoic expression.

Frank nodded as he looked down at the rifle in his hands. He slowly gripped the hilt of the weapon, holding it properly as he had seen Regina do with hers, feeling the weight while his eyes traced every detail. He inhaled and exhaled deeply.

"You good?" asked Regina, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Mhm," Frank responded with a nod, "I just haven't held a gun since Shawn was born."

"Well get used to it, sir, we're going to be doing it a lot more" added Shifty as he pulled the receiver back on one of the M16's they salvaged.

Frank set the rifle back on the bench. He looked at Regina and forced a smile. Suddenly the prospect of engaging those machines, like the one that nearly killed him and his son, became very real and he began to feel…fear. He tried to hide it; he didn't want Regina to think him cowardly, especially after he had told her that he was behind whatever she wanted to do. She looked back at him, recognizing the look in his eyes that said he was off elsewhere, lost in thought.

The soft sound of small feet stepping on wood floor filled the room as Shawn scurried in. His mouth was full with deer meat and his face screamed with curiosity. All the adults looked down at him and smiled. Frank welcomed the distraction and knelt down to hug his son. Shawn rushed forward and grabbed his father around the neck, the sounds of his teeth grinding meat reverberated in Frank's ear.

"Did Mr. Jimbo give you a sample, buddy?" asked Frank. Shawn pulled away and nodded his little head as he swallowed the meat. Regina knelt down, facing the boy. "I have a surprise for you" she said giddily. Shawn's face lit up and he began to rock back and forth on his heels. "What, what, what?" he asked expectantly.

Regina turned around and grabbed the airsoft toy from a stool behind her and held it in front of the boy, a massive grin splashed across her face.

"Oh wow!" exclaimed Shawn, reaching out and grasping the box. "Merry Christmas, Shawn" said Regina.

"What do you say?" said Frank, leveling his head with his son's starry expression. "Thank you, Miss Regina" recited the boy as he dropped to his bottom and began to tear the box asunder.

"You are very welcome" said Regina as she tussled his shaggy hair. ", my little soldier."

"Good job, Sergeant, give him something real to shoot me with" said Miller with a snarky smirk.

Regina turned her head and with a sly grin said "Can it, Miller."

Frank could not believe the mood throughout the house. It seemed as if for this day, this holy day, they could forget about the world around them. Skynet, Terminators, HK's, all of it could be set aside. He silently thanked God for this brief but much needed reprieve.

"Alright, guys, that's enough for tonight. It's Christmas, get out of here" said Regina as she forcefully pushed each soldier out of the room. Shawn stood with his brand new airsoft M4 held aloft, pointing the muzzle in all directions. "Miller!" he screamed, a toddler's battle cry, as he ran after the young soldier. Miller smiled and bounded through the kitchen, enticing the child into a game. Williams and Shifty shook their heads, suppressing laughs as they walked into the living room.

Frank and Regina stayed, holding each other by the hips, side by side.

"It's different, but it still feels like Christmas" remarked Frank, looking at Regina.

"I used to spend the holidays at my Dia's. She would make tamales and the whole family would exchange gifts. My papa would get so drunk…" she trailed off with a laugh.

"This is my first Christmas with Shawn since the divorce" Frank said flatly. Regina held him tight, attempting to smother him with comfort. "We'll make it one to remember" she said as she leaned up and kissed him.

They walked back into the living room, socializing and swapping stories with the others. Jimbo joined in, his girth creating a wide berth for him to move and tell his tales. He implored the group to sing carols and soon everyone in the living room was enthralled in "Silent Night."

Williams stood on the front porch, smoking a cigarette in the cold, basking in his own personal treasure from their excursion. He exhaled a large wisp of smoke, the warm air from his breath hitting the frigid night air. Through the haze he could see a faint gleam and blinking lights directly ahead of him. He squinted his eyes and stepped forward.

His eyes grew wide and his heart flew into his throat as he threw the half-finished cigarette to the ground. Frantically he spun around and flung the front door open, running into the living room.

With a panicked expression he shouted "HK INCOMING!"

The room froze, the singing abruptly ended and everyone's stomach sunk collectively. The air instantly became tense. Regina snapped into action feeling Frank's hand squeeze hers.

"Everyone douse the candles, get upstairs and get away from the windows. Move it, NOW!" she ordered.

The whole room became a blur of movement as each person blew out a candle and rushed up the stairs; it was ten seconds of controlled madness. Frank immediately limped as fast as he could to the other side of the house where Shawn and Miller executed their game. He hurriedly scooped up his son in his arms and took off for the stairs, Miller in tow having heard the shout.

Regina stood at the foot of the stairs as everyone filed up, waving them along in the complete darkness of the house.

Miller was bounding up the steps when the sound of the HK's turbo fans could be heard outside. Regina knew they wouldn't make it up the stairs. She grabbed Frank by the arm and rushed him into the hobby room. There was one window back there and she rushed her man and his son to lay down under it. She lay up against the wall next to the window and looking to Frank, held a finger to her lips. Frank held Shawn tight against his chest, gently running his hand through the boy's hair, trying to keep him calm as he felt Shawn's heartbeat surpass his own.

From the front of the house a search light could be seen piercing the windows. It was dead silent, the only sound coming from the HK hovering just outside the house. The sound drew closer as the machine began to circle around to the back, its light scanning the inside as it went.

Frank could feel Shawn's little hands grip his new toy rifle. If it wasn't so frightening, it would have been cute.

_On Christmas of all fucking days_ he thought, cursing Skynet for disrupting their fleeting moment of peace and joy.

The sound of the turbo fans peaked as the HK hovered just outside their window. Its light screamed through the window's blinds. It would change direction from left to right as the machine pivoted. Regina fought to hold back a curse as she saw the rifles sitting atop the work bench. She prayed that the machine wouldn't notice.

Each passing moment the machine spent in the window felt like an eternity. Regina's eyes locked with Frank's, her expression showing him true fear for the first time. Frank's gaze never faltered and he did not blink.

Finally the machine banked to the right and continued its search. A small sigh of relief exited both Frank and Regina.

She looked to Frank and mouthed the words "Don't move." He nodded and they both stayed where they were.

The machine could be heard above them, no doubt systematically searching the upstairs as well. For ten tense minutes it circled the upstairs. Finally, Frank and Regina could hear the dull roar of the HK's turbo fans as it sped off from whence it came.

The sound of steps on the stairs echoed through the house. A dark figure emerged in the doorway of the hobby room. "We're clear, Sergeant. Do we bug out? What are your orders?" asked the clearly ruffled voice of Williams.

"Negative, Airman, we hold. Tell everyone to stay upstairs, light and noise discipline. That thing is more than likely waiting for us to slip" she said with her composure collected.

"Roger that, Sergeant" replied Williams as he returned back down the hallway.

Regina crawled over to Frank and Shawn and wrapped her arms around them, holding them tight. She could feel Shawn sobbing against her chest. "Shhh its okay, Shawn. It's gone now, okay?" she said to the terrified child.

Frank held Shawn as he quickly followed Regina down the hallway, crouched down just in case. They made their way up the stairs as Jimbo was lumbering down.

"I ordered everyone to stay upstairs, Jimbo" hissed Regina, pressing her hand to Jimbo's wide chest.

"Ah knock that shit off" he said, swiping her hand away, "it's fuckin' Christmas and come Hell or high water these people are going to get their damn Christmas dinner!" he exclaimed. His jowls shook as she spat his response and his back was straight.

He had an odd way of displaying it, but his intentions were pure and sincere. Regina begrudgingly nodded and let Jimbo pass. After all, warm meat would be good for the morale after this sudden distraction. He plodded down the steps, grumbling his annoyance with the machine's crashing of their party. "Goddamn…hunk of junk…no good, Holiday-spoiling…Godless…" he rambled on.

Frank and Regina reached the top of the stairs to find everyone sitting next to one another along the walls of the hallway. They all wore the look of sheer terror. After months of living an existence free of the presence of Skynet, the evil system had finally come knocking on their door.

The couple, with Shawn, took up spots next to their brethren as Jimbo returned with a two plates full with strips of grilled deer meat. He distributed each piece to a member of the group and they all sat and ate in silence. It was a stark contrast to the previous mood. No stories were told, no laughs were to be heard, and no smiles were to be seen. All that was heard was the sound of dozens of scared survivors chewing their precious holiday meal.

Regina broke the silence and ordered "Hit the racks, everyone."

The group sullenly rose and filed out to their sleeping quarters while Frank carried a sleeping Shawn to his bedroom. Miller shared the room; he sat on his mat and chambered his rifle, his nerves obviously on edge. He gave Frank a quick nod as he laid Shawn in his bed as if to say "I've got him."

Frank retired to his bedroom where Regina waited. In the darkness they stripped and climbed into bed. Holding her close under the covers he whispered "Well, he'll certainly remember this Christmas."

Regina sighed as her hand gripped his. "I knew this was going to happen, I just hoped it wouldn't happen this soon" she said.

Frank sighed and asked the question that had been eating at him since he held the rifle in his hands. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Do what?" she asked, turning over to face him, a look of confusion on her face.

"Fight Skynet" he said dryly.

"After tonight, don't you?" she replied, slightly shocked at his question.

"I don't know, Regina. I'm just…" he trailed off, shame coursing through him.

"You're afraid" she said, finishing his thought. He looked her in the eye and nodded meekly, unable to say the words to this woman. She placed a hand on his cheek and his eyes closed.

"I almost died the last time I tangled with one of those things and I don't want Shawn growing up without a father. I still hear the screams from those people…" he said, fighting to keep the tremble out of his voice, "…and I don't want to lose you" he finished, opening his eyes to reveal them welling up.

Regina felt tears of her own forming as she leaned in to kiss Frank.

"You won't lose me, Frank. I don't think any less of you for being scared, I'm scared too. Scared or not, we have to fight…for Shawn, for all of our loved ones that Skynet killed, all of them. Shawn deserves a better world and we can give him that, but we have to fight for it. Think about what Connor said. We can beat it, Frank, it's not impossible." she said, cupping Frank's face in her hand.

"You're a brave man, Frank. I've seen it. I love you, more than you'll ever know" she said, pressing her forehead against his, a single tear streaming down her cheek.

Frank fought back his tears, "I love you, Regina" he said as he embraced her in a passionate kiss. He pulled back and looked at her, a fire of passion and determination burning behind his eyes. "Teach me everything you know and show me what I have to do. I'll follow you anywhere, to Hell and back" he declared, the love of this woman filling him with insurmountable courage. He gently wiped the tear from her cheek with his thumb as she looked at him adoringly.

That night they lay together, wrapped in the throes of passion and the hope of a brighter future. Brought together by disaster but bonded by fate.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

**September 2020**

"Alright now, Wade, keep it steady and keep your front sight aperture lined up with your rear sight aperture" said Shawn.

The young thirteen year old next to him trembled as he stood on the firing line, pointing Shawn's SGL downrange.

"When you have your target lined up, gently squeeze the trigger. Don't be afraid of the recoil, just accept it. You're doing fine, Wade. Whenever you're ready" finished Shawn.

The fiery-haired young man breathed out and squeezed the trigger. The rifle cracked, echoing through the firing range, its projectile impacting the target just high and right of the center. Wade's upper body was pushed back and the casing flew from the breech, the bolt locking back signaling the final round.

Wade instantly shot a grin at Shawn.

Shawn grinned back, albeit forcefully. "Well done, Wade that was your best yet. You're getting better" he said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. Wade dropped the empty magazine and cleared the chamber like he was taught. Placing the rifle on the bench in front of him he looked again to his teacher.

"Think I'm ready to go into the field?" he asked while removing his ear protection. Shawn did likewise and couldn't suppress a snort.

"Not yet, Wade. Shooting here is nothing like shooting at a Terminator" he said as-a-matter-of-factly.

"Aw, hell, when can I?" implored Wade, feeling no need to hide his frustration. Shawn bent down to eye level with the freckled face of the young man. "You'll get your chance, Wade, I promise. Just be patient, roger?" he said, his hand squeezing the boy's shoulder.

Wade nodded and handed Shawn the SGL. Shawn took it and slung it behind his back. "That's it for today, Wade. Go on, see what my dad needs from you" he said, hurrying the boy along.

As he watched the teenager run down the tunnel from the firing range, he felt an immense wave of dread pass over him, hoping that this boy would wait years before seeing combat with Skynet. In the back of his mind, he said his apologies. He would die taking Lackland, along with everyone else, and no one would remain to teach this boy the skills he would need to survive.

Shawn sighed and shook his head as he collected the spent shells and dumped them into the plastic drum next to the bench.

As he walked through the hangar towards the armory he envisioned his death. He hoped it would be climactic, him pulling the trigger in a last act of defiance until his life was terminated; like his dream, the Spartans he read about. Unfortunately he knew it would probably be sudden and quick. He would be vaporized by one of Skynet's plasma turrets before he even fired a shot. That fact infuriated him to no end.

"Hey!"

Shawn's head snapped in the direction of the sound. Behind him one of Connor's Tech-Com men was running up to him; the young, scrawny one. Shawn shook his head and continued to walk. Soon the man was walking next to him. "Sergeant Madison, right?" he asked, receiving no response from the ever-pacing figure of Shawn.

The man tried again, "I'm Kyle, Kyle Reese" he said as he extended his hand.

Shawn looked at Kyle's hand and scoffed as they walked. Kyle awkwardly rescinded his hand and kept up his stride with Shawn's.

Shawn turned into the armory. Here resided the many crates that were dropped by Connor. Shawn set his SGL on the large aluminum bench and proceeded to open one of the crates. Kyle leaned against the wall near the entrance and watched the brooding man work. Shawn opened the crate to find rows of rifles, Sig Sauer 556's chambered for 7.62mm, stacked inside. He retrieved one and brought it to the bench. He shot a quick look to Kyle as he pushed the pins out of the upper receiver to field strip the weapon.

"How is your friend doing?" Kyle asked, referring to the wounded Lopez.

"He'll live" Shawn barked quickly, separated the upper and lower receivers of the rifle and removing the bolt.

"I'm glad to hear that, really. I hear you guys got into one hell of a firefight out there" replied Kyle, desperately trying to connect with this man.

"No different than usual" said Shawn tersely.

Kyle nodded and observed Shawn's actions, his hands quickly removing the recoil spring and gas piston from the gas tube.

"I see you know your way around a rifle" he remarked.

Shawn slammed the Sig down on the bench and shot Kyle a fierce look. "Can I fucking help you with something or are you just going to stand there and point out the obvious?" he snapped.

"What the hell is your problem?" Kyle shot back, meeting Shawn's gaze without a flinch.

"My problem? I've got four Rambo wannabe's from California blowing smoke up my unit's ass, I've got a massacre to plan, I've got four crates of rifles to field strip and make battle-ready, but right now you're my fucking problem asshole" Shawn said, every muscle in his face tense.

Kyle didn't move, not so much as an involuntary twitch. Though he wouldn't say it, Shawn was slightly impressed. Kyle walked over to the crate and grabbed a Sig. He walked back to the opposite side of the bench, sat on a stool and began to field strip the weapon.

Shawn was bewildered. Everything screamed to Kyle to leave him the hell alone yet he not only stayed, he helped.

"Who's Rambo?" asked Kyle, attempting to break the tension. Shawn allowed a short chuckle to escape his flaring temper as he returned to his concentration to cleaning the rifle in front of him.

It was an awkward few minutes, both young men silent, exchanging the occasional wayward glance. Ironically, the silence annoyed Shawn more than the conversation.

"So…Kyle…what's your story?" he asked dryly, anything to break the silence.

Still looking at his work, Kyle answered. "I grew up in the ruins, L.A., me and my friend Star. We moved around a lot. When I was kid, before my dad died, we lived in the Griffith Observatory. After that Star and I moved into Downtown, the Moldavia hotel. We were there for a few years, until 2016, and then the Terminators hit it. We got away thanks to General Connor; well he wasn't a General then but…"

Shawn suddenly regretted his question.

Kyle continued, "We laid low in L.A., avoiding Terminators. It's a long story but we ran across this guy two years ago, Marcus, showed up out of the blue, all confused and shit. He didn't know about Skynet or the Terminators or anything. He got us out of L.A. but it wasn't long before Skynet picked us up. Marcus got away but Star and I were taken to San Francisco on a prisoner transport, right into Skynet Central. We were separated; the whole facility was built to use humans as lab rats for R&D on a new Terminator. See?"

Kyle rolled up his sleeve and extended his forearm. Looking down Shawn could see the all too familiar bar code burned into the skin by Skynet's laser scanners. His mind shot to Floresville and the few survivors in the unit that bore the same mark.

Kyle shrugged and reassembled the Sig. He stood up to grab another rifle from the crate, continuing: "Anyway, we weren't there for more than a day. General Connor showed up with Marcus and busted us all out of there. Star and I were with him the whole time. We were chased down by a Terminator. That fucking thing was nasty, I shot the damn thing with a 40mm grenade point blank and it got right back up. I could go my whole life without mixing it up with one of those again. General Connor eventually sent us ahead, he went toe-to-toe with this thing. It would have killed him if Marcus hadn't have showed up, in fact it almost did. The Terminator put a steel bar right through the General's heart"

Shawn looked up to see Kyle mimicking the motion of the bar piercing his chest. He nodded and stood up to grab another Sig. "I had heard Connor was a tough bastard" he remarked.

"And then some" replied Kyle, continuing with his recount.

"Marcus showed up, saved the General; we got out of there, all of the prisoners. Then General Connor blew the place sky high. He used the new Terminator's power cells as an explosive; pure fucking genius. We got to a safe zone; General Connor's heart was failing, so Marcus sacrificed his. They did the transplant right there. It was nothing short of a miracle that the General and Marcus were a match."

"How did that Marcus guy and General Connor get into Skynet Central? All Skynet facilities have automated turrets that shoot up anything with a heat signature." asked Shawn skeptically, suddenly intrigued.

"Marcus was a Terminator, Skynet just let him in, and General Connor followed" said Kyle nonchalantly.

Shawn's jaw dropped, "Bullshit, what the fuck are you talking about?" he exclaimed.

"He was a Skynet prototype, a hybrid of man and machine. He had a human heart and brain, with a chip interface, the endoskeleton was meshed with his human nervous system. It get's kind of complicated" said Kyle, almost dismissively.

"You're full of shit, Reese, I've never heard of any hybrids" retorted Shawn.

"Prototype, remember?" added Kyle, finishing with "You'll probably never see one like him again. He was built to kill General Connor, which was his sole purpose. He rejected Skynet's programming and helped us. Ironic, huh? For all of its smarts, Skynet didn't factor in a human's ability to choose."

Shawn didn't want to believe it, but the tone of Kyle's voice couldn't be argued. "That's just about the most bat-shit insane thing I have ever heard" said Shawn shaking his head.

"Believe me, I know! I spent two days with Marcus and I would never have guessed. Machine or not, he saved my life more than once. Yeah he was metal, but there was a man in there. No Terminator ever sacrificed itself to save a human like the General" said Kyle, adopting a faraway look for a moment, as if it was painful to think about.

Shawn shot a wayward look to Kyle from the work in front of him. "Sounds personal" he said.

Kyle looked at him; his young face looked to be stung by grief. "It was. I've lived my entire life running away from the Terminators, thinking every day I woke up would be my last. Marcus didn't have to take us out of L.A. but he did. He didn't have to risk his life to save us but he did. Some people said he only did that to execute his programming, to carry out his mission. I never believed that. That was a man and I owed him my life. After the transplant I buried him myself because that's what separates us from the machines; we bury our dead" he said, pointing his finger on the bench to accentuate his point.

Shawn locked eyes with the young soldier and saw a wisdom there that is only forged through grief and hardship. He decided not to delve any deeper and shifted the conversation, though he still wanted to know more.

"Do you think Skynet will build more of those hybrids?" asked Shawn while grabbed another rifle from the crate.

"No, the Theta project was ended two years ago. Skynet built a few, its latest attempt at an infiltrator, but they ultimately failed. Too many variables when you use a human brain, that and they had a major weakness: they could bleed to death" said Kyle as he leaned back off the bench and rubbed cleaning oil in the lower receiver of his rifle

"Tell me more" said Shawn flatly, his curiosity concerning these hybrid Terminators peaking.

Kyle placed the rifle back down and looked at Shawn, leaning over the bench on his elbows. "Okay, it's like this. Terminators run off programming, yeah? Well the Thetas, hybrids, did too but almost in a subconscious way. You see, their brain was still human, they thought for themselves. Now Skynet programmed a word into their chip-interface that when spoken would activate the programming. They might follow the programming deliberately or even subconsciously, but ultimately they could reject it. Skynet could manipulate them but it didn't have total control over them like it does the Terminators. Like Marcus, he found out Skynet used him to infiltrate the Resistance and lure Connor to San Francisco, he didn't want to be a part of killing the General, so he ripped his chip out. Now the other thing is this: they had a hybrid nervous system…bear with me, I'm still learning all this tech stuff. The heart still pumped blood, so if you shot them up enough, or cut a major artery, they simply bled to death. So ultimately we discovered Skynet ended the project and is moving forward with simply improving its T series" Kyle finished with a clap of his hands.

Shawn nodded as he soaked up this info, laying the rifle down for a second. "I remember when I was a kid, my dad and step-mother would listen to Connor's broadcasts."

Kyle smiled and nodded knowingly.

"I remember him saying that we couldn't imagine what Skynet will do to hunt us down, what new steps it will take, or something" said Shawn nostalgically.

"I don't know how but the General always seems to know what Skynet is going to do. I mean, Marcus and the Thetas threw him for a loop, but everything else he has been right on about" said Kyle.

"So why is Connor all gung-ho about smashing up Terminator factories? From what I understand he's been ordering attacks worldwide for the better part of a year" said Shawn as he removed the bolt from the rifle in front of him.

"It has to do with what we saw in San Francisco" said Kyle, almost as if we being evasive.

"Which was?" prodded Shawn

Kyle paused and looked a Shawn with a sudden seriousness, an age that made him seem much older. "When I was in Skynet Central, the prisoner camp…that was the first time I ever saw John Connor. He was being run down by a new Terminator. I only caught a quick glimpse of it but from what I saw…" he trailed off

"Don't hold out on me, Reese" implored Shawn, dropping the bolt.

"It looked human. It wasn't like Marcus; it had a…lifeless face. It was big, smaller than the 600, but big. You know how the 600's are sometimes covered in rubber skin to throw us off?" he asked Shawn

Shawn nodded and Kyle continued "Well this thing's skin was human! General Connor had shot its chest up and it was bleeding! I saw this thing grab a T-600 by the torso and pull it apart just to use the mini-gun. General Connor blasted it with three grenades and that fucking thing just kept coming" said Kyle with a grave expression.

"Human skin?" asked Shawn, truthfully slightly confused.

"I'm just telling you what I saw. We managed to get away and dropped down into the assembly plant. Skynet was building T-700's and this new one, Connor said it was a T-800. Anyway, you know the rest" he said with a wave of his hand. Shawn nodded, remembering Reese's recount. "That's why Connor destroyed San Francisco and that's why he's been demolishing factories worldwide. He wants to make sure that Skynet is not producing the T-800 anywhere else" said Kyle, running a hand through his hair.

"And if it is? What's its purpose?" asked Shawn, suddenly enticed by all this new intel.

"Infiltration, plain and simple. Connor told me that these things will look human, sweat, bad breath, everything. Skynet will use them to get in our bases and wipe us all out. Not to mention they have updated combat chassis making our weapons fucking useless. I would know I've seen it" he finished.

"Have we found any traces of it in any of the factories?" Shawn asked curiously.

"None so far, thankfully" replied Kyle with a sigh of relief.

Shawn ran his hand through his beard, nodding to himself as began to understand the urgency. In his gut he could feel a fresh batch of rage boiling. He was undertaking this attack to soothe Connor's own paranoia. In that moment he wanted to lash out and wring the neck of the Tech-Com soldier in front of him; a man who represented the leader who was condemning his unit to death.

He took a breath and buried it deep. He would save it for Skynet, save it for a warrior's death. He looked again to Kyle and adopted a curious face once more, forcing it to mask his burning rage.

"So what did you do once Connor sprung you lose?" Shawn asked, picking up and wiping down the bolt of a Sig.

"Then I joined up with Tech-Com. I've been fighting with them since. I wanted to be in the Resistance for years and now, here I am. Thanks to Connor I have a chance to help take Skynet down" said Kyle as snapped the two receivers of a Sig together and pulled the bolt back, testing the spring's tension.

"I'd die for John Connor" he added, standing up to retrieve another.

Shawn dismissed the last comment, instead jumping to the obvious. "What made you want to come here?" he asked.

"I volunteered. General Connor said it was a vital mission, it would allow the Dallas cell to hit their factory, so I threw my hand up and here I stand" he said calmly as he began work on another rifle.

"So you have a death wish?" Shawn quipped. Kyle looked at him with a puzzled look. "I thought this was going to come up" he said coolly.

"I hate to burst your bubble, Reese, but none of us are making it out of this one. We don't have the resources of personnel you L.A. boys have. Unless you guys packed a miracle in one of these crates, we are just south of fucked" Shawn said with a cynical chuckle.

"General Connor planned something that Skynet will never see coming, you'll see" Kyle exclaimed with a sly grin. Shawn looked at him with a puzzled expression, "This plan better have something to do with a few A-10's in the air bombing the shit out of Lackland" he said sternly.

"It's better than that" Kyle said confidently. Shawn shook his head, suspicious of what he was being told.

"You'll be informed at the briefing today with Major Barnes, believe me, when you hear this plan you'll see this mission in a whole new way" Kyle declared as he looked at his wrist watch.

Shawn dismissed it, he saw Kyle Reese as another starry-eyed John Connor fan-boy. However, there was something about Kyle that Shawn couldn't quite nail down. There was a determination there, a sense of purpose that seemed forged in steel. It pissed him off, but deep down, as the two sat and field-stripped the rifles the revelation hit him…Shawn was beginning to like the guy.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

**January 2004**

Frank held the Sig 556 in his arms. His eyes examined every contour and aspect of the rifle.

"That's your upper receiver. It houses the bolt carrier, the bolt, the gas tube, gas piston, recoil spring, gas block, and barrel" said Regina, pointing out each part. Frank nodded, learning the basics of assault rifle construction.

Regina continued, pointing out the lower receiver, trigger assembly and so on. Frank was wholly attentive. The HK scare on Christmas, which at first shook Frank, had now hardened his resolve. He resigned himself to learn all he could to help his love take the fight to Skynet.

"Are you ready to give it a shot?" asked Regina. "Let's do it" replied Frank.

Regina handed him a full magazine. Frank took it in his hands and slammed it home. "Tap it to make sure it's caught" said Regina. Frank slapped the palm of his hand on the underside of the mag. "Pull the charging handle" coached Regina. Frank wrapped his fingers around the lever and pulled it, exposing the brass of a fresh bullet. He let it go causing it to fly forward, the sound of the bullet fitting into the chamber sending a small surge of adrenaline coursing through him.

"You're hot;" said Regina, "make sure your finger is off the trigger until you're ready to fire. Point it downrange, line up your sights and squeeze it off"

Frank brought the stock to his shoulder, leaning his cheek on the polymer, looking down the sights.

"Keep your arms in tight" coach Regina, pushing his elbow closer to his torso.

Frank lined his sights up on a target set up on one of the fence posts and steadied his breathing. He searched the recesses of his mind to remember what his father taught him about shooting. "Shoot in between your breaths, son" he remembered him saying.

Frank inhaled and his finger squeezed the trigger. The stock pushed into his shoulder and the rifle cracked, the spent shell flew out of the chamber to his right. He exhaled with a disappointed sigh.

Miss; the bullet hit the earth sending a cloud of dirt into the wind.

"It was low and to the right, compensate for the bullet drop and wind" said Regina.

Frank leaned his cheek on the stock again, this time aiming just above his original target and slightly to the right. At the peak of his inhalation he squeezed the trigger.

The bullet found its mark, just above the center ring of the target. His confidence soared as he regained his aim and bumped the trigger with his finger. Three more rounds grouped themselves around the first. He fired until the magazine was empty, some controlled, some burst.

Frank lowered the muzzle and dropped the magazine as he smiled at Regina, who wore the look of honest shock.

"Not bad, baby…you sure you've never shot before?" she asked slyly.

"I may have led you on a little" he said quirkily. Regina's jaw dropped in a smile as she slapped him on the arm playfully.

"What! I think it's adorable when you instruct me like that!" he exclaimed, flinching gaily.

"Frank Madison if you weren't crippled I'd drop your ass, so help me God!" she said with another playful slap to his arm.

In the distance the report of more rifles could be heard, faint pops in the wind. Regina walked down the porch and peered over to the west side of the property. Leaning over the porch railing she could see Shifty and Williams walking behind a line of people, all on their knees, firing rounds into the distance.

At the line of twenty men and women was Jimbo. Due to his size he refused to kneel so he stood, blazing away fully automatic with the M16 in his hands. Compared to the other "recruits," who were doing everything possible to keep their rounds accurate and well grouped, Jimbo was spraying his target wildly.

Regina could see Williams power walking to him like a rabid Drill Sergeant, barking at him for breaking fire discipline. Jimbo threw his hefty arms in the air, rifle in hand and shouted back, their words mute over the cracks of rifles. Off to the far side of the firing line Regina saw Shifty laugh and holding his shaking head in his hands, clearly amused by the exchange.

"Looks like Shifty and Williams are doing ok" Regina remarked with a sheepish grin.

The day after Christmas Regina initiated an extensive training regimen for anyone fit enough and willing to fight the machines. Their day began with an hour of exercise drills; running, calisthenics, and endurance drills. Then they moved on to an hour of tactics instruction followed by firearms instructions including target practice. She wanted everyone to be proficient in close and long range engagements, to understand the importance of cover, evasion, and the intricacies of running and gunning.

Once the group has demonstrated competence of these basic principles she wanted to move on to learning how to make explosives and deploying them.

She had expressed to Frank her goal of making every man and woman a self-sufficient guerilla, a fighter able to think quickly, and act pragmatically.

Frank himself was limited in what he could do but she made time to teach him what he could learn, knowing she would be sharing leadership with him.

Frank rested the muzzle of the Sig on his shoulder as he walked over to Regina, kicking the spent casings aside. "What if an HK picks up on the noise?" he asked, looking to the sky as he stood next to her with his hand around her waist.

"Then we'll blow the motherfucker out of the sky" she said indignantly. Frank smiled, looking down at her. "You're sexy when you talk like that" he joked.

Suddenly the front door flew open and Miller sprinted down the steps, little yelps of pain emitting from his mouth. "Shit that stings!" he exclaimed as he hit the gravel and turned around. Frank and Regina spun their heads and looked. Shawn came bolting out of the open door, his airsoft M4 ahead of him, peppering Miller with plastic pellets. Shawn was beaming from ear to ear, laughing and shouting wildly as Miller continued his flight from the child's volley.

Frank and Regina laughed as Shawn gave chase, the sound of his toy rifle and squealing laughter heralding Miller's doom.

"Get him, Shawn, no mercy!" Regina yelled with a roaring laugh.

Miller ducked behind Frank's truck, only ten feet from porch, and Shawn halted. The young boy crouched down to see Miller's legs under the pickup. He shuffled back to the porch and knelt down behind the porch steps, facing the truck. Frank and Regina eyed the child curiously, attempting to figure out what was coursing through his young head.

Shawn lay down in the gravel and leveled his airsoft M4, carefully taking aim. Miller stayed where he was, eager to avoid direct engagement with the six year old.

Shawn giggled as he pulled the trigger of the toy, sending pellets colliding into Miller's exposed shins under the truck.

Miller jumped and ran back towards the house, yelping in pain "Damn, Frank, did you raise a kid or an insurgent!" he shouted as he ran full sprint.

Shawn stood up and jumped in the air, laughing and shouting his victory "I WIN, I WIN!"

Frank chuckled and looked at Regina, who was smiling and nodding, truthfully impressed with the child's cunning.

"Skynet beware;" she began as she looked at Frank, "the kid's a natural!"

"Well I did let him play a lot of Call of Duty before all this" Frank joked before looking to his son. "Good job, buddy! Now go apologize to Miller" he said.

Shawn nodded his head, his shaggy brown hair flying in the wind, and sprinted off after his friend and target.

"What I wouldn't do for a quarter of his energy" said Frank as he arduously limped to the door, making Regina follow him. She looked back to the firing line of refugees as she followed. Frank looked back and noted the concern on her face.

"Don't worry, Shifty and Williams got that" he assured her. She nodded reluctantly and looked at her watch. "Yeah, you're probably right, plus it's time to repack your wound" she said.

"Oh joy" Frank groaned. They had no pain medicine left and that whole process hurt like nothing Frank had ever cared to experience. "Well it's that or amputation, Mr. Madison, and I just don't think I could love a uni-leg, such shitty dancers" she joked as she helped him up the stairs and into his room.

Frank chuckled gravely as his unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants. "Ooh la la" cooed Regina with a mischievous smirk. "Oh hardy har-har, real professional" Frank chuckled as he lay down on the bed.

Regina laughed, in these moments alone with Frank she was able to be the woman she was before Judgment Day. She didn't have to bark orders, keep up morale, or dictate training. She could laugh, joke, and love her man. In these moments, she could not only experience a life that was stripped from her with a massive nuclear detonation; she could hope.

She slipped on her sterile gloves and removed the gauze that covered the wound on Frank's leg. The gash itself was still red around the edges with the string of packing gauze protruding. Regina gently gripped the packing gauze and began to pull it out. Frank inhaled sharply and grimaced as spikes of pain surged up his leg.

Regina tossed the soiled gauze into a trash can next to the bed and peered inside the wound. It was healing up well, the gash shrinking slowly. She reached into the aid kit next to bed and retrieved the bottle of gauze. She pulled a fresh strip, shorter than the last, and cut it loose with her field surgical scissors.

A cue tip securely in her fingers she gently began to ease the packing gauze into the wound. Frank jumped slightly at the fresh twinge of pain. Regina shot him a comforting look as she continued to pack the wound. Leaving a strip hanging from the crevice in the skin, she tossed the cue tip away. She grabbed a roll of dressing and cut a roll of fresh gauze. Folding it into a dense square she placed it over the wound and secured it with surgical tape.

Frank twitched involuntarily and hissed "Damn that hurts"

Regina jokingly rubbed his stomach and cooed through pursed lips "Oh, my big baby"

Frank smirked and decided to prod her with "If this is how you treated your other patients…yikes!"

Regina gasped with a grin and playfully slapped his belly "Only the cute ones" she exclaimed with a smile that displayed all teeth as she reached up to kiss him.


End file.
